THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   WAMPUM    LIBRARY    OF 
AMERICAN   LITERATURE 

EDITED   BY 

BRANDER    MATTHEWS,  Lrrr.D. 

Professor  in   Columbia    University 


AMERICAN    SHORT    STORIES 

CHARLES    SEARS    BALDWIN.   A.M.,  PH.D. 


ilibrar^ 

AMERICAN  SHORT  STORIES.  Selected  and  edited, 
with  an  Introductory  Essay  on  the  Short  Story,  by  CHARLES 
SEARS  BALDWIN,  A.M.,  Ph.D.,  Assistant  Professor  in  Yale 
University. 

AMERICAN  LITERARY  CRITICISM.  Selected  and 
edited,  with  an  Introductory  Essay,  by  WILLIAM  MORTON 
PAYNE,  LL.D.,  Associate  Editor  of  "The  Dial." 

AMERICAN  FAMILIAR  VERSE.  VtrtdeSoditi.  Edited, 
with  an  Introduction,  by  BRANDER  MATTHEWS,  Litt.D. 
(Yale),  of  Columbia  University. 


AMERICAN 
SHORT    STORIES 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  ON 
THE  SHORT  STORY 

BY 

CHARLES   SEARS    BALDWIN,  A.M.,  PH.D. 

ASSISTANT    PROFESSOR    IN    YALE    UNIVERSITY 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND   CO. 

91  AND  93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

LONDON  AND  BOMBAY 

1906 


Copyright,  1904, 
BY  LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  Co. 


All  rights  reserved. 

First  Edition,  August,  1904 
Reprinted,  May,  1906 


THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS,     CAMBRIDGE,     U.  S.  A. 


TO 

G.  E.  B. 


In  the  brief  tale,  however,  the  author  is  enabled  to  carry  out 
the  fulness  of  his  intention,  be  it  what  it  may.  During  the  hour 
of  perusal  the  soul  of  the  reader  is  at  the  writer's  control.  There 
are  no  external  or  extrinsic  injiuences  resulting  from  weariness 
or  interruption. 

A  skilful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If  wise,  he 
has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommodate  his  incidents;  but 
having  conceived,  with  deliberate  care,  a  certain  unique  or  single 
effect  to  be  wrought  out,  be  then  invents  such  incidents,  he  then 
combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  establishing  this 
preconceived  effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend  not  to  the 
out- bringing  of  this  effect,  then  be  has  failed  in  bis  frst  step.  In 
the  whole  composition  there  should  be  no  word  written  of  which 
the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre-established 
design.  —  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  , 


GENERAL   EDITOR'S   NOTE 

THE  Wampum  Library  of  American  Litera- 
ture has  been  planned  to  include  a  series 
of  uniform  volumes,  each  of  which  shall  deal  with 
the  development  of  a  single  literary  species,  trac- 
ing the  evolution  of  this  definite  form  here  in  the 
United  States,  and  presenting  in  chronological  se- 
quence typical  examples  chosen  from  the  writings 
of  American  authors.  The  editors  of  the  several 
volumes  provide  critical  introductions,  in  which 
they  outline  the  history  of  the  form  as  it  has  been 
evolved  in  the  literature  of  the  world. 

Every  volume  is  complete  in  itself,  and  wholly 
independent  of  its  fellows.  It  contains  a  large 
variety  of  carefully  chosen  selections  taken  chiefly 
from  the  works  of  writers  now  no  longer  living; 
and  although  it  has  been  found  advisable  some- 
times to  draw  on  writings  of  authors  born  in  the 
first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  no  selection 
has  been  made  from  any  living  American  writer 
whose  birth  has  occurred  since  December  jist, 
1850. 

B.  M. 


PREFAC  E 

THE  object  of  this  volume  is  not  to  collect 
the  best  American  short  stories.  So  deli- 
cate a  choice  may  the  more  readily  be  left 
to  time,  since  it  must  include  some  authors  now 
living.  That  dramatic  concentration  which  is  the 
habit  of  a  hundred  writers  for  our  magazines  to- 
day was  extremely  rare  before  1835;  ^  was  not 
common  before  1870;  it  has  become  habitual 
within  the  memory  of  its  younger  practitioners. 
This  collection,  then,  seeks  to  exhibit,  and  the 
introductory  essay  seeks  to  follow  and  formulate, 
a  development.  The  development  from  inchoate 
tales  into  that  distinct  and  self-consistent  form 
which,  for  lack  of  a  distinctive  term,  we  have 
tacitly  agreed  to  call  the  short  story  is  a  chapter 
of  American  literary  history. 

Influences  from  abroad  and  from  the  past, 
though  they  could  not  be  displayed  at  large,  have 
been  indicated  in  the  aspects  that  seemed  most 
suggestive  for  research.  The  significance  in  form 
of  Boccaccio's  experiments,  for  example,  because 
it  has  hardly  been  defined  before,  is  proposed  in 


x  PREFACE 

outline  to  students  of  comparative  literature.  But 
the  American  development  is  so  far  independent 
that  it  may  be  fairly  comprehended  in  one  vol- 
ume. To  exhibit  this  by  typical  instances,  from 
Irving  down,  did  not  preclude  variety  alike  of 
talents  and  of  scenes.  Indeed,  that  the  collection 
should  thus  express  many  tempers  —  Knicker- 
bocker leisure,  Yankee  adaptability,  Irish  fervor; 
and  many  localities,  from  elder  New  England  to 
the  new  coast  of  gold,  from  the  rude  Michigan 
frontier  to  the  gentle  colonies  of  the  lower  Mis- 
sissippi —  makes  it  the  more  American. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  record  my  obligation  to 
Walter  Austin,  Esq.,  for  the  rare  edition  of  his 
grandfather's  literary  papers,  and  to  the  publishers 
whose  courtesy  permits  me  to  include  some  stories 
valuable  in  copyright  as  in  art. 

C.  S.  B. 
YALE  UNIVERSITY,  August,  1904. 


[NOTE.  —  The  story  entitled  <  The  Eve  of  the  Fourth '  is 
printed  here  (page  305)  by  permission  of  Mr.  William  Heine- 
mann,  publisher  of  'The  Copperhead,  and  Other  Stories,  etc.,' 
by  Harold  Frederic.] 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION  Page 

I.   The  Tale  in  America  before  1835     ...  I 

II.  Poe's  Invention  of  the  Short  Story     ...  15 

III.  A  Glance  at   Derivation :     Ancient  Tales, 

Mediaeval  Tales,  The    Modern    French 
Short  Story 23 

PART  I.     THE  TENTATIVE  PERIOD 
Chapter 

I.   WASHINGTON   IRVING 

Rip   Van   Winkle  ....      1820  .      .        39 

-  II.   WILLIAM    AUSTIN 

Peter  Rugg,  the  Missing  Man     1824.  .      .        6 1 

-  III.   JAMES   HALL 

The  French  Village       .      .      .      1829  .      .        99 

IV.  ALBERT   PIKE 

The  Inroad  of  the  Nabajo  .      .      1833  .      .      115 

PART  II.     THE  PERIOD  OF  THE 
NEW  FORM 

V.    NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE 

The  White  Old  Maid      .     .      1835  .      .      131 
VI.    HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

The  Notary  of  Perigueux .     .      1835  .      .      145 


xii  CONTENTS 

Chapter 

VII.    EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  Page 

The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher     183  p  .     .      155 
VIII.   NATHANIEL    PARKER    WILLIS 

The  Inlet  of  Peach  Blossoms     .      184.0-5    .      179 

IX.    CAROLINE     MATILDA     STANSBURY 
KIRKLAND 

The  Bee-Tree 184.6  .      .      195 

X.    FITZ-JAMES    O'BRIEN 

What  was  It  ?     A  Mystery    .      1859  .      .      213 
XI.    FRANCIS    BRET    HARTE 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat    .      1869  .      .      231 
XII.    ALBERT    FALVEY   WEBSTER 

Miss  Eunice's  Glove     .      .      .      I&73  •      .      247 

XIII.  BAYARD    TAYLOR 

Who  was  She? 1874.  •      -      269 

XIV.  HENRY    CUYLER    BUNNER 

The  Love-Letters  of  Smith      .      1890  .      .      291 
XV.   HAROLD   FREDERIC 

The  Eve  of  the  Fourth    .      .      189?  .     .     305 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL    NOTE 325 

INDEX 327 


AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

INTRODUCTION 

I.   THE  TALE   IN  AMERICA  BEFORE   1835 

HOW  few  years  comprise  the  history  of  Amer- 
ican literature  is  strikingly  suggested  by  the 
fact  that  so  much  of  it  can  be  covered  by 
the  reminiscence  of  a  single  man  of  letters.1  A  life 
beginning  in  the  '2O's  had  actual  touch  in  boyhood 
with  Irving,  and  seized  fresh  from  the  press  the  ro- 
mances of  Cooper.  And  if  the  history  of  American 
literature  be  read  more  exclusively  as  the  history  of 
literary  development  essentially  American,  its  years 
are  still  fewer.  "  I  perceive,"  says  a  foreign  visitor  in 
Austin's  story  of  Joseph  Natterstrom,  "  this  is  a  very 
young  country,  but  a  very  old  people."  2  Some  critics, 
indeed,  have  been  so  irritated  by  the  spreading  of  the 
eagle  in  larger  pretensions  as  to  deprecate  entirely  the 
phrase  "  American  literature."  Our  literature,  they 
retort,  has  shown  no  national,  essential  difference  from 
the  literature  of  the  other  peoples  using  the  same 
language.  How  these  carpers  accommodate  to  their 
view  Thoreau,  for  instance,  is  not  clear.  But  waiving 
other  claims,  the  case  might  almost  be  made  out  from 

1  Donald  G.  Mitchell,  American  Lands  and  Letters. 

z  Literary  Papers  of  William  Austin,  Boston,  1890,  page  43. 


2       AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the   indigenous   growth   of  one  literary  form.     Our 
short  story,  at  least,  is  definitely  American. 

The  significance  of  the  short  story  as  a  new  form 
of  fiction  appears  on  comparison  of  the  staple  product 
of  tales  before  1835  with  the  staple  product  thereafter. 
1835  is  the  date  of  Poe's  Berenice.  Before  it  lies  a 
period  of  experiment,  of  turning  the  accepted  anec- 
dotes, short  romances,  historical  sketches,  toward 
something  vaguely  felt  after  as  more  workmanlike. 
This  is  the  period  of  precocious  local  magazines,1  and 
of  that  ornament  of  the  marble-topped  tables  of  our 
grandmothers,  the  annual.  Various  in  name  and  in 
color,  the  annual  gift-books  are  alike,  —  externally  in 
profusion  of  design  and  gilding,  internally  in  serving 
up,  as  staples  of  their  miscellany,  poems  and  tales. 
Keepsakes  they  were  called  generically  in  England, 
France,  and  America;  their  particular  style  might  be 
Garland  or  Gem?  The  Atlantic  Souvenir,  earliest  in 
this  country,  so  throve  during  seven  years  (1826-1832) 
as  to  buy  and  unite  with  itself  (1833)  its  chief  rival, 
the  Token.  The  utterly  changed  taste  which  smiles  at 
these  annuals,  as  at  the  clothes  of  their  readers,  ob- 
scures the  fact  that  they  were  a  medium,  not  only  for 
the  stories  of  writers  forgotten  long  since,  but  also 
for  the  earlier  work  of  Hawthorne.  By  1835  the  New 
England  Magazine  had  survived  its  infancy,  and  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger  was  born  with  promise. 
Since  then  —  since  the  realisation  of  the  definite  form 


1  See  Prof.  William  B.  Cairns,  On  the  Development  of  Amer- 
ican Literature  from  1815  to  1833,  with  especial  reference  to 
periodicals;  Bulletin  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  Philol- 
ogy and  Literature  Series,  volume  i,  No.  i. 

2  For  a  pungent  characterisation  of  the  annuals,  see  Prof. 
Henry  A.  Beers's  life  of  N.  P.  Willis  (American  Men  of  Let- 
ters), pages  77  and  following. 


INTRODUCTION  3 

in  Foe's  Berenice  —  the  short  story  has  been  explored 
and  tested  to  its  utmost  capacity  by  almost  every 
American  prose-writer  of  note,  and  by  many  without 
note,  as  the  chief  American  form  of  fiction.  The 
great  purveyor  has  been  the  monthly  magazine. 
Before  1835,  then,  is  a  period  of  experiment  with 
tales;  after  1835,  a  period  of  the  manifold  exercise 
of  the  short  story.  The  tales  of  the  former  have 
much  that  is  national  in  matter;  the  short  stories  of 
the  latter  show  nationality  also  in  form. 

Nationality,  even  provinciality,  in  subject-matter 
has  been  too  much  in  demand.  The  best  modern 
literature  knows  best  that  it  is  heir  of  all  the  ages,  and 
that  its  goal  should  be,  not  local  peculiarity,  but  such 
humanity  as  passes  place  and  time.1  Therefore  we 
have  heard  too  much,  doubtless,  of  local  color.  At 
any  rate,  many  purveyors  of  local  color  in  fiction 
have  given  us  documents  rather  than  stories.  Still 
there  was  some  justice  in  asking  of  America  the 
things  of  America.  If  the  critics  who  begged  us  to 
be  American  have  not  always  seemed  to  know  clearly 
what  they  meant,  still  they  may  fairly  be  interpreted 
to  mean  in  general  something  reasonable  enough,  — 
namely,  that  we  ought  to  catch  from  the  breadth  and 
diversity  of  our  new  country  new  inspirations.  The 
world,  then,  was  looking  to  us,  in  so  far  as  it  looked 
at  all,  for  the  impulse  from  untrodden  and  picturesque 
ways,  for  a  direct  transmission  of  Indians,  cataracts, 
prairies,  bayous,  and  Sierras.  Well  and  good.  But, 
according  to  our  abilities,  we  were  giving  the  world 
just  that.  Years  before  England  decided  that  our 
only  American  writers  in  this  sense  were  Whitman, 

1  Fromentin  (Un  £te  dans  le  Sahara,  page  59  ;  Une  Annte 
dans  le  Sahel,  pages  215  and  following)  lays  this  down  for 
painting. 


4       AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

Mark  Twain,  and  Bret  Harte,  —  seventy  years  before 
the  third  of  this  perversely  chosen  group  complacently 
informed  the  British  public  1  that  he  was  a  pioneer 
only  in  the  sense  of  making  the  short  story  American 
in  scenes  and  motives,  —  American  writers  were  ex- 
ploring their  country  for  fiction  north  and  south,  east 
and  west,  up  and  down  its  history.  What  we  lacked 
was,  not  appreciation  of  our  material,  but  skill  in  ex- 
pressing it;  not  inspiration,  but  art.  We  had  to  wait, 
not  indeed  for  Bret  Harte  in  the  '6o's,  but  for  Poe  in 
the  '3o's.  The  material  was  known  and  felt,  and  again 
and  again  attempted.  Nothing  could  expose  more 
vividly  the  fallacy  that  new  material  makes  new  litera- 
ture. We  were  at  school  for  our  short  story ;  but  we 
had  long  known  what  stories  we  had  to  tell.  In  that 
sense  American  fiction  has  always  been  American. 

For  by  1830  the  preference  of  native  subjects  for 
tales,  to  say  nothing  of  novels,  is  plainly  marked.  The 
example  of  Irving  in  this  direction  could  not  fail  of 
followers.  From  their  beginning  the  early  magazines 
and  annuals  essay  in  fiction  the  legends,  the  history, 
and  even  the  local  manners  of  the  United  States,  in 
circles  widening  with  the  area  of  the  country.  Thus 
the  Atlantic  Souvenir  for  1829,  furnishing  forth  in 
its  short  fictions  an  historical  romance  of  mediaeval 
France,  a  moral  tale  in  oriental  setting,  a  melodrama 
of  the  Pacific  Islands,  and  a  lively  farce  on  the 
revolution  in  Peru,  presented  also,  with  occasional 
attempt  at  native  scenery,  the  following:  The  Metho- 
dists Story,  a  moral  situation  of  the  anger  of  father 
and  son;  Narantsauk,  an  historical  tale  of  Baron 
Castine;  The  Catholic,  weaving  into  King  Philip's 
attack  on  Springfield  the  hopeless  affection  of  a 

1  Bret  Harte,  The  Rise  of  the  Short  Story,  Cornhill  Mag- 
azine, July,  1899. 


INTRODUCTION  5 

Catholic  girl  and  a  Protestant  youth  —  the  very 
field  of  Hawthorne ;  and  a  melodramatic  Emigrant's 
Daughter.  In  the  same  year,  1829,  James  Hall,  then 
fairly  afloat  on  his  vocation  of  law  and  his  avocation 
of  letters,  compiled,  indeed  largely  composed,  the 
first  Western  Souvenir  at  Vandalia,  Illinois.  Its  most 
significant  tales  are  three  of  his  own,  set,  with  more 
careful  locality  than  most  of  the  seaboard  attempts, 
in  the  frontier  life  along  the  Mississippi.  The  Indian 
Hater  and  Pete  Featherton  present  backwoodsmen 
of  Illinois  and  Ohio.  The  French  Village  is  defi- 
nitely a  genre  study.  Loose  enough  in  plot,  it  has 
in  detail  a  delicacy  and  local  truth  not  unworthy 
the  material  of  Cable.  That  there  was  a  definite 
tendency  toward  native  themes  is  amply  confirmed 
by  the  annuals  of  subsequent  years  before  1835. 
Besides  Hawthorne's  earlier  pieces  in  the  Token, 
there  had  appeared  by  1831  studies  of  the  Natchez 
and  of  the  Minnesota  Indians,  the  Maryland  Roman- 
ists, Shays's  Rebellion,  the  North-River  Dutch,  and 
the  Quakers.  And  the  same  tendency  appears  in 
the  early  magazines.  The  Western  Monthly  Review, 
adventurously  put  forth  by  Timothy  Flint  in  Cincin- 
nati, had  among  its  few  tales  before  1831  an  Irish- 
Shawnee  farce  on  the  Big  Miami,  The  Hermit  of  the 
Prairies,  a  romance  of  French  Louisiana,  a  rather 
forcible  study  of  Simon  Girty  and  the  attack  on 
Bryant's  Station,  and  two  local  character  sketches 
entitled  Mike  Shuck  and  Colonel  Plug.  To  extend 
the  period  of  consideration  is  to  record  the  strength- 
ening of  the  tendency  established  by  Irving  and 
Cooper.  The  books  of  John  Pendleton  Kennedy 
are  collections  of  local  sketches.  Mrs.  Hale,  praised 
for  her  fidelity  to  local  truth,  was  supported  in  the 
same  ambition  by  Mrs.  Gilman.  Mrs.  Kirkland's 


6       AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

sketches  of  early  Michigan  are  as  convincing  as  they 
are  vivacious.  Most  of  these  studies  emerge,  if  that 
can  be  said  to  emerge  which  is  occasionally  fished 
up  by  the  antiquary,  only  by  force  of  what  we  have 
been  berated  for  lacking  —  local  inspiration. 

What  were  the  forms  of  this  evident  endeavor  to 
interpret  American  life  in  brief  fictions ;  and,  more 
important,  what  was  the  form  toward  which  they 
were  groping?  For  this  inquiry  the  natural  point 
of  departure  is  the  tales  of  Irving.  Any  reapprecia- 
tion  of  Irving  would  now  be  officious.  We  know 
that  classical  serenity,  alike  of  pathos  and  of  humor ; 
and  we  have  heard  often  enough  that  he  got  his  style 
of  Addison.  Indeed  no  attentive  reader  of  English 
literature  could  well  fail  to  discern  either  Irving's 
schooling  with  the  finest  prose  of  the  previous  cen- 
tury—  with  Goldsmith,  for  instance,  as  well  as  Addi- 
son—  or  the  essential  originality  of  his  own  prose. 
He  is  a  pupil  of  the  Spectator^  That  is  a  momentous 
fact  in  the  history  of  American  literature.  We  know 
what  it  means  in  diction.  What  does  it  mean  in 
form  ?  That  our  first  eminent  short  fictions  were 
written  by  the  pupil  of  a  school  of  essayists  vitally 
affected  their  structure.  The  matter  of  the  Spectator 
suggested  in  England  a  certain  type  of  novel ; 2  its 
manner  was  not  the  manner  to  suggest  in  America 
the  short  story,  even  to  an  author  whose  head  was 
full  of  the  proper  material.  For  though  it  may  be 
hard  to  prove  in  the  face  of  certain  novels  that  an 

1  See  Cairns,  as  above,  page  64.     The  influence  of  the  Spec- 
tator form  in  France  appears  strikingly  in  L'Hermite  de  la 
Chausste  (FAntin,  ou  observations  sur  les  moeurs  et  les  usages 
francais  au  commencement  du  xixme  siecle,  par  M.  de  Jouy, 
Paris  (collective  volumes),  1813. 

2  Cross,  Development  of  the  English  Novel,  pages  24,  25. 


INTRODUCTION  7 

essay  is  one  thing  and  a  story  another,  it  is  obvi- 
ous to  any  craftsman,  a  priori,  that  the  way  of  the 
essay  will  not  lead  to  the  short  story.  And  in  fact 
it  did  not  lead  to  the  short  story.  The  tales  of  Irv- 
ing need  no  praise.  Composed  in  the  manner  typical 
of  the  short  story,  they  might  have  been  better  or 
worse;  but  they  are  not  so  composed.  It  was  not 
at  random  that  Irving  called  his  first  collection  of 
them  (1819-20)  The  Sketch  Book.  The  Wife,  for 
instance,  is  a  short-story  plot ;  it  is  handled,  precisely 
in  the  method  of  the  British  essay,  as  an  illustrative 
anecdote.  So  The  Widow  and  Her  Son;  so  The 
Pride  of  the  Village,  most  evidently  in  its  expository 
introduction ;  so,  in  essence  of  method,  many  of  the 
others.  And  Rip  Van  Winkle?  Here,  indeed,  is  a 
difference,  but  not,  as  may  at  first  appear,  a  signifi- 
cant difference.  True,  the  descriptive  beginning  is 
modern  rather  than  Addisonian ;  romanticism  had 
opened  the  eyes  of  the  son  of  the  classicals ;  but 
how  far  the  typical  looseness  of  romanticism  is  from 
the  typical  compactness  of  the  short  story  may  be 
seen  in  Irving's  German  tale  of  the  Spectre  Bride- 
groom, and  it  may  be  seen  here.  True  again,  the 
characterisation,  though  often  expository,  is  deli- 
ciously  concrete ;  but  it  is  not  more  so  than  the  char- 
acterisation of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley;  nor  is  Rip's 
conversation  with  his  dog,  for  instance,  in  itself  the 
way  of  the  short  story  any  more  than  Sir  Roger's 
counting  of  heads  in  church.  Unity  of  tone  there 
is,  unity  clearer  than  in  Irving's  models,  and  there- 
fore doubtless  more  conscious.  But  Irving  did  not 
go  so  far  as  to  show  his  successors  that  the  surer 
way  to  unity  of  tone  is  unity  of  narrative  form.  Still 
less  did  he  display  the  value  of  unity  of  form  for 
itself.  His  stories  do  not  culminate.  As  there  is 


8       AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

little  emphasis  on  any  given  incident,  so  there  is  no 
direction  of  incidents  toward  a  single  goal  of  action. 
Think  of  the  Catskill  legend  done  a  la  mode.  Almost 
any  clever  writer  for  to-morrow's  magazines  would 
begin  with  Rip's  awakening,  keep  the  action  within 
one  day  by  letting  the  previous  twenty  years  trans- 
pire through  Rip's  own  narrative  at  the  new  tavern, 
and  culminate  on  the  main  disclosure.  That  he  might 
easily  thus  spoil  Rip  Van  Winkle  is  not  in  point. 
The  point  is  that  he  would  thus  make  a  typical  short 
story,  and  that  the  Sketch  Book  did  not  tend  in  that 
direction.  Nor  as  a  whole  do  the  Tales  of  a  Trav- 
eller. Not  only  is  Buckthorne  and  His  Friends 
avowedly  a  sketch  for  a  novel,  but  the  involved  and 
somewhat  laborious  machinery  of  the  whole  collection 
will  not  serve  to  move  any  of  its  separable  parts  in 
the  short-story  manner.  Even  the  German  Student, 
which  is  potentially  much  nearer  to  narrative  single- 
ness, has  an  explanatory  introduction  and  a  blurred 
climax.  Such  few  of  the  Italian  bandit  stories  as 
show  compression  of  time  remain  otherwise,  like  the 
rest,  essentially  the  same  in  form  as  other  romantic 
tales  of  the  period.  In  narrative  adjustment  Irving 
did  not  choose  to  make  experiments.1 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  Irving's  influ- 
ence, so  far  at  it  is  discernible  in  subsequent  short 
fictions,  seems  rather  to  have  retarded  than  to  have 
furthered  the  development  toward  distinct  form. 
Our  native  sense  of  form  appears  in  that  the  short 
story  emerged  fifteen  years  after  the  Sketch  Book\ 
but  where  we  feel  Irving  we  feel  a  current  from 
another  source  moving  in  another  direction.  The 

1  For  Irving's  own  view  of  his  tales,  see  a  quotation  from  his 
letters  at  page  xix  of  Professor  Brander  Matthews's  edition  of 
the  Tales  of  a  Traveller. 


INTRODUCTION  9 

short  descriptive  sketches  composing  John  Pendleton 
Kennedy's  Swallow  Barn  (1832)  have  so  slight  a 
sequence,1  and  sometimes  so  clear  a  capacity  for  self- 
consistent  form,  that  it  is  easy  to  imagine  them  as 
separate  short  stories  of  local  manners ;  but,  whether 
through  Irving,  or  directly  through  the  literary  tra- 
dition of  Virginia,  they  keep  the  way  of  the  Spectator. 
James  Hall,  who  had  been  still  nearer  to  the  short 
story  of  local  manners  in  his  French  Village  (1829), 
was  poaching  on  Irving's  manor  in  his  Village  Musi- 
cian (1831)  with  evident  disintegration.  In  Haw- 
thorne, who,  of  course,  was  nearest  of  all  before 
Foe's  genius  for  form  seized  and  fixed  the  short 
story,  it  is  difficult  to  be  sure  of  the  influence  of 
Irving.  True,  Hawthorne's  earlier  historical  tales, 
though  they  have  far  greater  imaginative  realisa- 
tion, are  not  essentially  different  in  method  from 
Irving's  Philip  of  Pokanoket ;  but  it  was  quite  as 
likely  Hawthorne's  natural  bent  toward  the  descrip- 
tive essay  that  made  his  earlier  development  in  fiction 
tentative  and  vacillating,  as  any  counsel  from  the 
happy,  leisurely  form  of  the  elder  master.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  Irving's  influence  in  general,  if  not  deter- 
rent, seems  at  least  not  to  have  counted  positively 
in  the  development  of  the  short  story. 

Rather  Irving  left  the  writers  for  the  annuals  and 
abortive  early  magazines  to  feel  after  a  form.  What 
were  the  modes  already  accepted;  and  what  were 
their  several  capacities  for  this  shaping?  The  moral 
tale,  of  course,  is  obvious  to  any  one  who  has  glanced 
over  the  literary  diversions  of  his  forbears ;  and  this, 
equally  of  course,  had  often  its  unity  of  purpose. 

1  "  A  rivulet  of  story  meandering  through  a  broad  meadow  of 
episode  —  a  book  of  episodes  with  occasional  digressions  into 
the  plot."  Kennedy's  preface  to  Swallow  Barn. 


io     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

But  since  the  message,  instead  of  permeating  the  tale 
by  suggestion,  was  commonly  formulated  in  exposi- 
tory introduction  or  hortatory  conclusion,  it  did  not 
suffice  to  keep  the  whole  in  unity  of  form.  Indeed, 
the  moral  tale  was  hardly  a  form.  It  might  be  mere 
applied  anecdote;  it  might  be  the  bare  skeleton  of 
a  story,  as  likely  material  for  a  novel  as  for  a  short 
story;  it  was  often  shapeless  romance.1  But  two 
tendencies  are  fairly  distinct.  Negatively  there  was 
a  general  avoidance,  before  Hawthorne,  of  allegory 
or  symbolism.  For  a  moral  tale  allegory  seems  an 
obvious  method;  but  it  is  a  method  of  suggestion, 
and  these  tales,  with  a  few  exceptions,  such  as  Austin's 
Peter  Rugg,  hardly  rise  above  the  method  of  formal 
propounding.  Positively  there  was  a  natural  use  of 
oriental  manner  and  setting,  as  in  Austin's  Joseph 
Natterstrom  and  Paulding's  Ben  Hadar? 

Another  typical  ingredient  of  the  annual  salad  is 
the  yarn  or  hoax-story.  The  significance  of  this 
as  American  has  been  often  urged ;  and  indeed  it 
spread  with  little  seeding,  and,  as  orally  spontaneous, 
has  made  a  favorite  diversion  of  the  frontier.  Its 
significance  in  form  is  that  it  absolutely  demands  an 
arrangement  of  incidents  for  suspense.  The  superi- 
ority of  form,  however,  was  associated,  unfortunately 
for  any  influence,  with  triviality  of  matter.  Again, 
the  annuals  are  full  of  short  historical  sketches. 
Sometimes  these  are  mere  summary  of  facts  or  mere 
anecdote,  to  serve  as  explanatory  text  for  the  steel 

1  This  is  the  character  of  the  tales  of  Mme.  de  Genlis,  of 
which  a  volume  was  published  in  New  York,  1825 :  New 
Moral  Tales,  selected  and  translated  from  the  French  of 
Mme.  de  Genlis,  by  an  American. 

*  Nodier  adopts  the  same  setting  for  the  same  purpose  (cf. 
Les  Quatre  Talismans,  1838);  but  the  habit  is  at  least  as  old 
as  Voltaire. 


INTRODUCTION  n 

engravings  then  fashionable  as  "  embellishments " ; 
sometimes  they  are  humorous  renderings  of  recent 
events  ; J  more  commonly  they  are  painstaking  studies, 
—  Delia  Bacon's,  for  instance,  or  Charlotte  Sedg- 
wick's,  in  the  setting  of  American  Colonial  and  Rev- 
olutionary history ;  most  commonly  of  all,  whether 
native  or  foreign,  modern  or  mediaeval,  they  are 
thorough-going  romances,  running  often  into  swash- 
buckling and  almost  always  into  melodrama.2  The 
tendency  to  melodramatic  variety,  with  the  typical 
looseness  of  romanticism,  then  everywhere  dominant 
in  letters,  held  the  historical  sketches  back  from 
compactness,  or  even  definiteness,  of  form.3  So 
clever  a  writer  as  Hall  leaves  many  of  his  historical 
pieces  with  the  ends  loose,  as  mere  sketches  for 
novels.  The  theoretical  difference  between  a  novel- 
ette and  a  short  story4  is  thus  practically  evident 
throughout  this  phase  of  the  annuals  in  lack  of 
focus. 

Still  the  studies  of  historical  environment  were 
more  promising  in  themselves  and  also  confirmed 
that  attempt  to  realise  the  locality,  as  it  were,  of  the 
present  or  the  immediate  past  which  emerges  as 
genre  or  local  color.  The  intention  of  Miss  Sedg- 
wick's  Reminiscence  of  Federalism  (1835)  is  the  same 
as  that  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  of  the  same  environ- 
ment. Her  Mary  Dyre  comes  as  near  in  form  as 

1  So  Godfrey  Wallace's  Esmeralda,  Atlantic  Souvenir  for 
1829. 

2  Miss  Sedgwick's  Chivalric  Sailor  (1835)  is  essentially  like 
our  current  historical  romances.      A  typical  instance  is  Dana's 
Paul  Felton  (1822). 

8  This  tendency  was  confirmed,  of  course,  by  the  predomi- 
nance of  Scott. 

4  Brander  Matthews,  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-Story, 
page  15. 


12     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

Hawthorne's  Gentle  Boy  to  extracting  the  essence  of 
Quakerdom.  Where  her  studies  fail  is  in  that  vital 
intensity  which  depends  most  of  all  on  compression 
of  place  and  time.  Now  an  easier  way  toward  this 
was  open  through  the  more  descriptive  sketch  of 
local  manners.  To  realise  the  genius  of  a  place  is 
a  single  aim;  to  keep  the  tale  on  the  one  spot  is 
almost  a  necessity ;  to  keep  it  within  a  brief  time  by 
focusing  on  one  significant  situation  is  a  further 
counsel  of  unity  which,  though  it  had  not  occurred 
to  American  writers  often,  could  not  be  long  de- 
layed. Thus,  before  1835,  Albert  Pike  had  so  far 
focused  his  picturesque  incidents  of  New  Mexico 
as  to  burn  an  impression  of  that  colored  frontier 
life ;  and  James  Hall,  in  spite  of  the  bungling,  unne- 
cessary time-lapse,  had  so  turned  his  French  Village 
(1829)  as  to  give  a  single  picture  of  French  colonial 
manners. 

Hawthorne,  indeed,  had  gone  further.  His  affect- 
ing Wives  of  the  Dead  (1832)  is  brought  within  the 
compass  of  a  single  night.  If  the  significance  of  this 
experiment  was  clear  to  Hawthorne,  then  he  must 
have  abandoned  deliberately  what  Poe  seized  as  vital ; 
for  he  recurred  to  the  method  but  now  and  then.  The 
trend  of  his  work  is  quite  different.  But  there  is  room 
to  believe  that  the  significance  of  the  form  escaped 
him ;  for  as  to  literary  method,  as  to  form,  Hawthorne 
seems  not  to  see  much  farther  than  the  forgotten  writ- 
ers whose  tales  stand  beside  his  in  the  annuals.  An 
obvious  defect  of  these  short  fictions  is  in  measure. 
The  writers  do  not  distinguish  between  what  will  make 
a  good  thirty-page  story  and  what  will  make  a  good 
three-hundred-page  story.  They  cannot  gauge  their 
material.  Austin's  Peter  Rugg  is  too  long  for  its  best 
effect;  it  is  definitely  a  short-story  plot.  Many  of 


INTRODUCTION  13 

the  others  are  far  too  short  for  any  clear  effect ;  they 
are  definitely  not  short-story  plots,  but  novel  plots ; 
they  demand  development  of  character  or  revolution 
of  incidents.  Aristotle's  distinction  between  simple 
and  complex  plots  1  underlies  the  difference  between 
the  two  modern  forms.  Now  even  Hawthorne  seems 
not  quite  aware  of  this  difference.  The  conception 
of  Roger  Malvin's  Burial (1832)  demands  more  devel- 
opment of  character  than  is  possible  within  its  twenty- 
eight  pages.  The  sense  of  artistic  unity  appears  in 
the  expiation  at  the  scene  of  guilt;  but  the  deficiency 
of  form  also  appears  in  the  long  time-lapse.  Alice 
Doane's  Appeal  (1835)  is  the  hint  of  a  tragedy,  a 
conception  not  far  below  that  of  the  Scarlet  Letter. 
For  lack  of  scope  the  tragic  import  is  obscured  by 
trivial  description;  it  cannot  emerge  from  the  awk- 
ward mechanism  of  a  tale  within  a  tale ;  it  remains 
partial,  not  entire.  Like  Alice  Doane,  Ethan  Brand 
is  conceived  as  the  culmination  of  a  novel.  To  say 
that  either  might  have  taken  form  as  a  short  story  is 
not  to  belittle  Hawthorne's  art,  but  to  indicate  his 
preference  of  method.  Ethan  Brand  achieves  a  pic- 
turesqueness  more  vivid  than  is  usual  in  Hawthorne's 
shorter  pieces.  The  action  begins,  as  in  Hawthorne 
it  does  not  often  begin,  at  once.  The  narrative  skill 
appears  in  the  delicate  and  thoroughly  characteristic 
device  of  the  little  boy;  but  imagine  the  increase  of 
purely  narrative  interest  if  Hawthorne  had  focused 
this  tale  as  he  focused  The  White  Old  Maid ;  and  then 
imagine  The  White  Old  Maid  itself  composed  without 
the  superfluous  lapse  of  time,  like  The  Wives  of  the 
Dead.  That  Hawthorne  seems  not  to  have  realised 
distinctly  the  proper  scope  of  the  short  story,  and 
further  that  he  did  not  follow  its  typical  mode  when 

i  Poetics,  chapter  x. 


i4     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

that  mode  seems  most  apt,  —  both  these  inferences 
are  supported  by  the  whole  trend  of  his  habit. 

For  Hawthorne's  genius  was  not  bent  in  the 
direction  of  narrative  form.  Much  of  his  character- 
istic work  is  rather  descriptive,  —  Sunday  at  Home, 
Sights  from  a  Steeple,  Main  Street,  The  Village  Uncle, 
—  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  his  collections  is  to  be 
reminded  how  many  of  his  short  pieces  are  like  these.1 
Again,  his  habitual  symbolism  is  handled  quite  un- 
evenly, without  narrative  sureness.  At  its  best  it  has 
a  fine,  permeating  suggestiveness,  as  in  The  Ambitious 
Guest ;  at  its  worst,  as  in  Fancy's  Show  Box,  it  is 
moral  allegory  hardly  above  the  children's  page  of 
the  religious  weekly  journal.  Lying  between  these 
two  extremes,  a  great  bulk  of  his  short  fictions  shows 
imperfect  command  of  narrative  adjustments.  The 
delicate  symbolism  of  David  Swan  is  introduced,  like 
fifty  pieces  in  the  annuals,  whose  authors  were  inca- 
pable of  Hawthorne's  fancy,  by  formal  exposition 
of  the  meaning.  The  poetry  of  the  Snow  Image  is 
crudely  embodied,  and  has  also  to  be  expounded  after 
the  tale  is  done.  The  lovely  morality  of  the  Great 
Stone  Face  has  a  form  almost  as  for  a  sermon.  The 
point  for  consideration  is  not  the  ultimate  merit  of 
Hawthorne's  tales,  but  simply  the  tendency  of  their 
habit  of  form.  For  this  view  it  is  important  to  re- 
member also  his  bent  toward  essay.  Description  and 
essay,  separately  and  together,  sum  up  the  character 
of  much  of  his  work  that  was  evidently  most  spon- 
taneous. Perhaps  nothing  that  Hawthorne  wrote  is 
finer  or  more  masterly  than  the  introduction  to  the 
Scarlet  Letter.  For  this  one  masterpiece  who  would 

1  Poe's  review  of  Hawthorne's  tales  (1842)  begins  by  remark- 
ing that  they  are  not  all  tales  (Stedman  and  Woodberry  edition 
of  Poe,  vol.  vii,  page  28). 


INTRODUCTION  15 

not  give  volumes  of  formally  perfect  short  stories? 
Yet  if  it  is  characteristic  of  his  genius,  —  and  few 
would  deny  that  it  is,  —  it  suggests  strongly  why  the 
development  of  a  new  form  of  narrative  was  not  for 
him.  This  habit  of  mind  explains  why  the  Marble 
Faun,  for  all  the  beauty  of  its  parts,  fails  to  hold  the 
impulse  of  its  highly  imaginative  conception  in  single- 
ness of  artistic  form.  In  his  other  long  pieces  Haw- 
thorne did  not  so  fail.  The  form  of  the  novel  he  felt ; 
and  it  gave  him  room  for  that  discursiveness  which  is 
equally  natural  to  him  and  delightful  to  his  readers. 
But  the  form  of  the  short  story,  though  he  achieved 
it  now  and  again  —  as  often  in  his  early  work  as  in  his 
later  —  he  seems  not  to  have  felt  distinctly.  And, 
whether  he  felt  it  or  not,  his  bent  and  preference  were 
not  to  carry  it  forward. 


II.   FOE'S   INVENTION  OF  THE 
SHORT  STORY 

FOR  the  realisation  and  development  of  the  short- 
story  form  lying  there  in  posse,  the  man  of  the  hour 
was  Foe.  Foe  could  write  trenchant  essays;  he 
turned  sometimes  to  longer  fictions;  but  he  is  above 
all,  in  his  prose,  a  writer  of  short  stories.  For  this 
work  was  he  born.  His  artistic  bent  unconsciously, 
his  artistic  skill  consciously,  moved  in  this  direction. 
In  theory  and  in  practice  he  displayed  for  America 
and  for  the  world  1  a  substantially  new  literary  form. 
What  is  there  in  the  form,  then,  of  Foe's  tales  which, 
marking  them  off  from  the  past,  marks  them  as  models 

1  Poe's  tales  were  translated  into  French,  German,  Italian, 
and  Spanish.  He  was  reviewed  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes,  Oct.  15,  1846  (new  series,  vol.  xvi,  page  341). 


16     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

for  the  future?  Primarily  Poe,  as  a  literary  artist,  was 
preoccupied  with  problems  of  construction.  More 
than  any  American  before  him  he  felt  narrative  as 
structure ;  —  not  as  interpretation  of  life,  for  he  lived 
within  the  walls  of  his  own  brain ;  not  as  presentation 
of  character  or  of  locality,  for  there  is  not  in  all  his 
tales  one  man,  one  woman,  and  the  stage  is  "  out  of 
space,  out  of  time  " ;  but  as  structure.  His  chief  con- 
cern was  how  to  reach  an  emotional  effect  by  placing 
and  building.  When  he  talked  of  literary  art,  he 
talked  habitually  in  terms  of  construction.  When  he 
worked,  at  least  he  planned  an  ingeniously  suspended 
solution  of  incidents ;  for  he  was  always  pleased  with 
mere  solutions,  and  he  was  master  of  the  detective 
story.  At  best  he  planned  a  rising  edifice  of  emo- 
tional impressions,  a  work  of  creative,  structural 
imagination. 

This  habit  of  mind,  this  artistic  point  of  view,  mani- 
fests itself  most  obviously  in  harmonisation.  Every 
detail  of  setting  and  style  is  selected  for  its  archi- 
tectural fitness.  The  Poe  scenery  is  remarkable  not 
more  for  its  original,  phantasmal  beauty  or  horror 
than  for  the  strictness  of  its  keeping.  Like  the  land- 
scape gardening  of  the  Japanese,  it  is  in  each  case 
very  part  of  its  castle  of  dreams.  Its  contrivance  to 
further  the  mood  may  be  seen  in  the  use  of  a  single 
physical  detail  as  a  recurring  dominant,  —  most 
crudely  in  the  dreadful  teeth  of  Berenice,  more  surely 
in  the  horse  of  Metzengerstein  and  the  sound  of  Mo- 
rella's  name,  most  subtly  in  the  wondrous  eyes  of 
Ligeia.  These  recurrences  in  his  prose  are  like  the 
refrain  of  which  he  was  so  fond  in  his  verse.  And 
the  scheme  of  harmonisation  includes  every  smallest 
detail  of  style.  Poe's  vocabulary  has  not  the  ampli- 
tude of  Hawthorne's;  but  in  color  and  in  cadence, 


INTRODUCTION  17 

in  suggestion  alike  of  meaning  and  of  sound,  its 
smaller  compass  is  made  to  yield  fuller  answer  in  de- 
claring and  sustaining  and  intensifying  the  required 
mood.  Even  in  1835,  the  first  year  of  his  conscious 
prose  form,  the  harmonising  of  scene  and  of  diction 
had  reached  this  degree :  — 

"  But  one  autumnal  evening,  when  the  winds  lay  still  in 
heaven,  Morella  called  me  to  her  bedside.  There  was  a  dim 
mist  over  all  the  earth,  and  a  warm  glow  upon  the  waters ; 
and,  amid  the  rich  October  leaves  of  the  forest,  a  rainbow 
from  the  firmament  had  surely  fallen. 

"  '  It  is  a  day  of  days,'  she  said,  as  I  approached ;  '  a  day 
of  all  days  either  to  live  or  die.  It  is  a  fair  day  for  the  sons 
of  earth  and  life  —  ah,  more  fair  for  the  daughters  of  heaven 
and  death  ! ' 

"  I  kissed  her  forehead,  and  she  continued  : 

"  '  I  am  dying ;  yet  shall  I  live.' 

"  <  Morella  ! ' 

" '  The  days  have  never  been  when  thou  couldst  love  me 
—  but  her  whom  in  life  thou  didst  abhor,  in  death  thou 
shalt  adore." 

"  '  Morella  ! ' 

" '  I  repeat  that  I  am  dying.  But  within  me  is  a  pledge  of 
that  affection  —  ah,  how  little  !  —  which  thou  didst  feel  for 
me,  Morella.  And  when  my  spirit  departs  shall  the  child 
live  —  thy  child  and  mine,  Morella's.'  " 

It  is  almost  the  last  word  of  adaptation. 

Yet  in  all  this  Poe  simply  did  better  what  his 
predecessors  had  done  already.  His  harmonising 
of  scene,  of  style,  was  no  new  thing.  The  narra- 
tive form  itself  needed  more  artistic  adjustment.  To 
begin  with  what  now  seems  to  us  the  commonest  and 
most  obvious  defect,  the  narrative  mood  and  the  nar- 
rative progress  must  not  be  disturbed  by  introduc- 
tory exposition.  Not  only  the  ruck  of  writers  for  the 


i8     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

annuals,  but  even  Irving,  but  even  sometimes  Haw- 
thorne, seem  unable  to  begin  a  story  forthwith.  They 
seem  fatally  constrained  to  lay  down  first  a  bit  of 
essay.  Whether  it  be  an  adjuration  to  the  patient 
reader  to  mind  the  import,  or  a  morsel  of  philosophy 
for  a  text,  or  a  bridge  from  the  general  to  the  partic- 
ular, or  an  historical  summary,  or  a  humorous  intima- 
tion, it  is  like  the  juggler's  piece  of  carpet;  it  must 
be  laid  down  first.  Poe's  intolerance  of  anything  ex- 
traneous demanded  that  this  be  cut  off.  And  though 
since  his  time  many  worthy  tales  have  managed  to 
rise  in  spite  of  this  inarticulate  member,  the  best  art 
of  the  short  story,  thanks  to  his  surgery,  has  gained 
greatly  in  impulse.  One  can  almost  see  Poe  experi- 
menting from  tale  to  tale.  In  Berenice  he  charged  the 
introduction  with  mysterious  suggestion ;  that  is,  he 
used  it  like  an  overture;  he  made  it  integral.  In 
Morella,  the  point  of  departure  being  similar,  the 
theme  is  struck  more  swiftly  and  surely,  and  the  action 
begins  more  promptly.  In  King-  Pest,  working  evi- 
dently for  more  rapid  movement,  he  began  with  lively 
description.  Metzengerstein  recurs  to  the  method  of 
Berenice;  but  Ligeia  and  Usher,  the  summit  of  his 
achievement,  have  no  introduction,  nor  have  more 
than  two  or  three  of  the  typical  tales  that  follow. 

"True!  nervous — very,  very  dreadfully  nervous,  I  had 
been  and  am ;  but  why  will  you  say  that  I  am  mad?  The 
disease  had  sharpened  my  senses  —  not  destroyed  —  not 
dulled  them.  Above  all  was  the  sense  of  hearing  acute.  I 
heard  all  things  in  the  heaven  and  in  the  earth.  I  heard 
many  things  in  hell.  How,  then,  am  I  mad  ?  Hearken  ! 
and  observe  how  healthily  —  how  calmly  I  can  tell  you  the 
whole  story."  The  Tell- Tale  Heart  (1843). 

Every  one  feels  the  force  for  this  tale  of  this  method 
of  beginning ;  and  to  many  story-readers  of  to-day  it 


INTRODUCTION  19 

may  seem  obvious ;  but  it  was  Poe,  more  than  any 
one  else,  who  taught  us  to  begin  so. 

The  idea  of  this  innovation  was  negatively  to  reject 
what  is  from  the  point  of  view  of  narrative  form 
extraneous ;  positively  it  was  to  make  the  narrative 
progress  more  direct.  And  the  evident  care  to 
simplify  the  narrative  mechanism  for  directness  of 
effect  is  the  clue  to  Foe's  advance  in  form,  and  his 
most  instructive  contribution  to  technic.  This  prin- 
ciple explains  more  fully  his  method  of  setting  the 
scene.  The  harmonisation  is  secured  mainly  by  sup- 
pression. The  tale  is  stripped  of  every  least  incon- 
gruity. In  real  life  emotion  is  disturbed,  confused, 
perhaps  thwarted ;  in  art  it  cannot  be  interpreted 
without  arbitrary  simplification ;  in  Foe's  art  the 
simplification  brooks  no  intrusive  fact.  We  are  kept 
in  a  dreamland  that  knows  no  disturbing  sound. 
The  emotion  has  no  more  friction  to  overcome  than 
a  body  in  a  vacuum.  For  Foe's  directness  is  not  the 
directness  of  spontaneity;  it  has  nothing  conversa- 
tional or  "  natural  "  ;  it  is  the  directness  of  calculation. 
So  he  had  little  occasion  to  improve  his  skill  in  dia- 
logue. Dialogue  is  the  artistic  imitation  of  real  life. 
He  had  little  use  for  it.  His  best  tales  are  typically 
conducted  by  monologue  in  the  first  person.  What 
he  desired,  what  he  achieved,  what  his  example 
taught,  was  reduction  to  a  straight,  predetermined 
course.  Everything  that  might  hinder  this  consist- 
ency were  best  away.  So,  as  he  reduced  his  scene 
to  proper  symbols,  he  reduced  it  also,  in  his  typical 
tales,  to  one  place.  Change  of  place,  lapse  of  time, 
are  either  excluded  as  by  the  law  of  the  classical 
unities,1  or,  if  they  are  admitted,  are  never  evident 

1  See  Aristotle's  Poetics,  chapters  vii  and  viii.  The  "  classi- 
cal "  French  drama  deduced  from  Aristotle's  general  principle 


io     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

enough  to  be  remarked.  What  this  meant  as  a 
lesson  in  form  can  be  appreciated  only  by  inspecting 
the  heavy  machinery  that  sank  many  good  tales 
before  him.  What  it  means  in  ultimate  import  is  the 
peculiar  value  and  the  peculiar  limitation  of  the  short 
story  —  in  a  word,  its  capacity  as  a  literary  form. 
The  simplification  that  he  set  forth  is  the  way  to 
intensity ;  but  perhaps  Hawthorne  saw  that  it  might 
be  the  way  to  artificiality. 

The  history,  then,  of  the  short  story  —  the  feeling 
after  the  form,  the  final  achievement,  will  yield  the 
definition  of  the  form.  The  practical  process  of 
defining  by  experiment  compiles  most  surely  the 
theoretical  definition.  And  to  complete  this  defi- 
nition it  is  safe  to  scrutinise  the  art  of  Poe  in  still 
other  aspects.  His  structure,  appearing  as  harmoni- 
sation  and  as  simplification,  appears  also  as  grada- 
tion. That  the  incidents  of  a  tale  should  be  arranged 
as  progressive  to  a  climax  is  an  elementary  narrative 
principle  not  so  axiomatic  in  the  practice,  at  least,  of 
Foe's  time  as  to  bind  without  the  force  of  his  exam- 
ple. Even  his  detective  stories,  in  their  ingenious 
suspense  and  their  swift  and  steady  mounting  {o 
climax,  were  a  lesson  in  narrative.  But  this  is  the 
least  of  his  skill.  The  emotional  and  spiritual  effects 
that  he  sought  as  his  artistic  birthright  could  be 
achieved  only  by  adjustments  far  more  subtle.  The 
progressive  heightening  of  the  style  corresponds  to 
a  nice  order  of  small  details  more  and  more  signifi- 
cant up  to  the  final  intensity  of  revelation.  Little 
suggestion  is  laid  to  suggestion  until  the  great  hyp- 
notist has  us  in  the  mood  to  hear  and  feel  what  he 
will.  It  is  a  minute  process,  and  it  is  unhurried; 

of  unity  of  action  a  strict  system  of  practice.  Of  Poe's  adhe- 
rence to  this  system  a  good  instance  is  The  Cask  of  Amontillado. 


INTRODUCTION  21 

but  it  is  not  too  slow  to  be  accomplished  within 
what  before  him  would  have  seemed  incredible  brev- 
ity. The  grading  of  everything  to  scale  and  per- 
spective, that  the  little  whole  may  be  as  complete, 
as  satisfying,  as  any  larger  whole  —  nay,  that  any 
larger  treatment  may  seem,  for  the  time  of  com- 
parison, too  broad  and  coarse,  —  this  is  Poe's  finer 
architecture.  But  for  him  we  should  hardly  have 
guessed  what  might  be  done  in  fifteen  pages ;  but 
for  him  we  should  not  know  so  clearly  that  the  art 
of  fifteen  pages  is  not  the  art  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty. 

Berenice  casts  a  shadow  first  from  the  fatal  library, 
chamber  of  doubtful  lore,  of  death,  of  birth,  of  pre- 
natal recollection  "like  a  shadow  —  vague,  variable, 
indefinite,  unsteady;  and  like  a  shadow,  too,  in  the 
impossibility  of  my  getting  rid  of  it  while  the  sun- 
light of  my  reason  shall  exist."  The  last  words 
deepen  the  shadow.  Then  the  "  boyhood  in  books  " 
turns  vision  into  reality,  reality  into  vision.  Berenice 
flashes  across  the  darkened  stage,  and  pines,  and 
falls  into  trances,  "disturbing  even  the  identity  of 
her  person."  While  the  light  from  her  is  thus  turn- 
ing to  darkness,  the  visionary's  morbid  attentiveness 
is  warped  toward  a  monomania  of  brooding  over 
trivial  single  objects.  For  the  sake  of  the  past  and 
visionary  Berenice  betrothed  with  horror  to  the  de- 
caying real  Berenice,  he  is  riveted  in  brooding  upon 
her  person  — her  emaciation  —  her  face —  her  lips  — 
her  teeth.  The  teeth  are  his  final  curse.  The  rest 
is  madness,  realised  too  horribly,  but  with  what  final 
swiftness  of  force  !  No  catalogue  of  details  can  con- 
vey the  effect  of  this  gradation  of  eight  pages.  Yet 
Berenice  is  Poe's  first  and  crudest  elaboration.  The 
same  static  art  in  the  same  year  moves  Morella  more 


22     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

swiftly  through  finer  and  surer  degrees  to  a  per- 
fectly modulated  close  in  five  pages.  His  next  study, 
still  of  the  same  year,  is  in  the  grotesque.  The  freer 
and  more  active  movement  of  King  Pest  shows  his 
command  of  the  kinetic  short  story  of  incident  as 
well  as  of  the  static  short  story  of  intensifying  emo- 
tion. By  the  next  year  he  had  contrived  to  unite 
in  Metzengerstein  the  two  processes,  culminating  in- 
tensity of  feeling  and  culminating  swiftness  of  action 
for  a  direct  stroke  of  terror  and  retribution.  By 
1836  Poe  knew  his  art;  he  had  only  to  refine  it. 
Continuing  to  apply  his  method  of  gradation  in 
both  modes,  he  gained  his  own  peculiar  triumphs  in 
the  static,  —  in  a  situation  developed  by  exquisite 
gradation  of  such  infinitesimal  incidents  as  compose 
Berenice  to  an  intense  climax  of  emotional  sugges- 
tion, rather  than  in  a  situation  developed  by  grada- 
tion of  events  to  a  climax  of  action.  But  in  both 
he  disclosed  the  fine  art  of  the  short  story  in  draw- 
ing down  everything  to  a  point. 

For  all  this  was  comprehended  in  Foe's  conception 
of  unity.  All  these  points  of  technical  skill  are  de- 
rived from  what  he  showed  to  be  the  vital  principle 
of  the  short  story,  its  defining  mark,  —  unity  of  im- 
pression through  strict  unity  of  form.  "  Totality  of 
interest,"  an  idea  caught  from  Schlegel,  he  laid  down 
first  as  the  principle  of  the  short  poem,1  and  then  as 
the  principle  of  the  tale.2  And  what  this  theory  of 
narrative  should  imply  in  practice  is  seen  best  in  Poe. 

1  In  a  review  of  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Southern  Literary  Messen- 
ger, volume  ii,  page  113  (January,  1836);  quoted  in  Wood- 
berry's  Life  of  Poe,  page  94. 

9  In  a  review  of  Hawthorne,  Graham's  Magazine,  May,  1842 ; 
Stedman  and  Woodberry's  edition  of  Poe,  volume  vii,  page 
30;  quoted  in  the  appendix  to  Brander  Matthews 's  Philosophy 
of  the  Short-Story. 


INTRODUCTION  23 

For  Hawthorne,  though  he  too  achieves  totality  of 
interest,  is  not  so  surely  a  master  of  it  precisely  be- 
cause he  is  not  so  sure  of  the  technic.  His  symbol- 
ism is  often  unified,  as  it  were,  by  logical  summary ; 
for  Poe's  symbolism  summary  would  be  an  imperti- 
nence. Foe's  harmonisation,  not  otherwise,  perhaps, 
superior  to  Hawthorne's,  is  more  instructive  as  being 
more  strictly  the  accord  of  every  word  with  one  con- 
stantly dominant  impression.  His  simplification  of 
narrative  mechanism  went  in  sheer  technical  skill  be- 
yond the  skill  of  any  previous  writer  in  opening  a 
direct  course  to  a  single  revealing  climax.  His  gra- 
dation, too,  was  a  progressive  heightening  and  a  nice 
drawing  to  scale.  All  this  means  that  he  divined, 
realised,  formulated  the  short  story  as  a  distinct  form 
of  art.  Before  him  was  the  tale,  which,  though  by 
chance  it  might  attain  self-consistency,  was  usually 
and  typically  incomplete,  either  a  part  or  an  outline 
sketch ;  from  his  brain  was  born  the  short  story  as  a 
complete,  finished,  and  self-sufficing  whole. 


III.   A   GLANCE   AT   DERIVATION 

ANCIENT  TALES,  MEDLEVAL  TALES,  THE 
MODERN   FRENCH  SHORT  STORY 

THE  nice  questions  of  literary  derivation  cannot  be 
finally  answered  for  the  tale,  any  more  than  for 
other  literary  forms,  without  large  citation  Milesian 
and  analysis  in  particular.  But,  pending  Tales, 
fuller  discussion,  a  general  survey  of  the  typical  late 
Greek,  late  Latin,  and  mediaeval  forms  is  full  of  sug- 
gestion. Stories  being  primarily  for  pleasure  and 
the  pleasures  of  decadent  Greece  being  largely  car- 
nal, it  can  give  no  long  amazement  to  find  that  the 


24     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

tales  popular  along  the  Mediterranean  of  the  Seleu- 
cids  and  the  Ptolemies  were  erotic  and  often  frankly 
obscene.  Known  as  Milesian1  tales,  doubtless  from 
the  bad  eminence  of  some  collection  in  the  Ionian 
city  of  pleasure,  they  set  a  fashion  for  those  Roman 
studies  in  the  naturally  and  the  unnaturally  sexual  of 
which  the  Satyricon2  of  Petronius  may  stand  as  a 
type.  The  famous  tale  of  the  Matron  of  Ephesus, 
which  has  more  consistency  than  most  of  this  col- 
lection, reveals  at  once  how  far  such  pieces  went  in 
narrative  form.  Clearly  a  capital  plot  for  a  short 
story,  it  is  just  as  clearly  not  a  short  story,  but  only 
a  plot.  It  is  as  it  were  a  narrative  sketch  or  study, 
like  the  scenario  for  a  play.  And  in  this  it  is  like 
many  other  tales  of  its  class.  The  rest,  the  majority, 
are  simply  anecdote.3  They  are  such  stories  as  men 
of  free  life  and  free  speech  have  in  all  ages  told 
after  dinner.  That  is  their  character  of  subject; 
that  is  their  capacity  of  form.  Speaking  broadly, 
then,  the  short  tales  of  antiquity  are  never  short 
stories  in  our  modern  sense.  They  are  either  an- 
ecdote or  scenario. 

Of  the  longer  tale  of  antiquity  a  convenient  type  is 
the  Dap/mis  and  Chloe  ascribed  to  Longus.  A  plot 
no  less  ancient  than  that  of  the  foundling  reared  in 
simple  life  and  ultimately  reclaimed  by  noble  par- 
ents receives  from  the  Greek  author  the  form  of  a 

1  A  collection  ascribed  to   Antonius  Diogenes,  compiled  by 
Aristides  of  Miletus,  was  translated  into   Latin  by  Cornelius 
Sisenna  (119-67  B.C.).     The  translation  is  lost. 

2  The  Cena  of  Petronius  has  more  consistency,  is  in  form 
more  like  the  longer  tales  of  antiquity. 

8  The  object  of  Lucian  is  always  satire.  This,  not  any  purely 
narrative  end,  determines  his  method.  But  it  is  worth  observ- 
ing that  The  Ass  is  picaresque.  For  the  rest,  no  single  adven- 
ture of  the  string  is  more  than  anecdote. 


INTRODUCTION  25 

pastoral 1  romance,  with  episodes,  complications,  and 
a  fairy-tale  ending.  Its  form,  then,  is  essentially  the 
same  as  the  form  of  Aucassin  and  Nico- 
lette,  Florus  and  Jehane,  Amis  and  Amile, 
and  other  typical  short  romances  of  the  Aucassin 
middle  age.  Between  such  short  romances  and  Nico- 
and  the  modern  short  story  there  is  the 
same  difference  of  form  as  between  Chaucer's  tale 
of  the  Man  of  Law,  which  is  one  of  the  former, 
and  his  tale  of  the  Pardoner,  which  foreshadows 
how  such  material  may  be  handled  in  the  way  of  the 
latter.  For  Chaucer,  as  in  his  Troilus  and  Criseyde 
he  anticipates  the  modern  novel,  so  in  his  Pardoner 
anticipates  the  modern  short  story.  The  middle  age 
and  the  Renaissance,  even  antiquity,2  show  isolated, 
sporadic  instances  of  short  story,  whether  in  prose  or 
in  verse;  but  these  are  apart  from  the  drift  of  the 
time.  Aside  from  such  sporadic  cases,  the  longer 
mediaeval  tale  or  short  romance,  though  often  in 
length  within  the  limits  of  short  story,  is  typically 
loose  as  to  time  and  place,  and  as  to  incident  ac- 
cumulative of  marvels.  It  is  to  the  long  mediaeval 
romance  what  the  modern  tale  —  not  the  modern 
short  story  —  is  to  the  modern  novel.  And  it  is  a 
constant  form  from  Greece  —  even  from  India  and 
Egypt,3  down  to  the  present.  In  form  the  Alexan- 
drian Dap/mis  and  Ckloe,  the  mediaeval  Aucassin 
and  Nicolctte,  and  the  whole  herd  of  modern  tales, 

1  The  Greek  title  is  Tro^ieviKa. 

2  E.  g.,  the  fifteenth  idyl  of  Theocritus,  and  the  opening  of 
the  seventh  oration  of   Dio  Chrysostom.     The  latter,  though 
brought  in  as  anecdote,  has  extraordinary  ingenuity  and  finish 
of  form. 

8  See  the  introduction  by  Joseph  Jacobs  to  Old  French  Ro- 
mances done  into  English  by  William  Morris. 


26     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

such  as  Miss  Edgeworth's,  are  essentially  alike.  The 
modern  time  has  differentiated  two  forms :  first,  the 
novel,  in  which  character  is  progressively  developed, 
incidents  progressively  complicated  and  resolved ; 
second,  the  short  story,  in  which  character  and  action 
are  so  compressed  as  to  suggest  by  a  single  situation 
without  development.  The  former  is  as  it  were  an 
expansion  of  the  tale ;  the  latter,  a  compression.  In 
both  cases  the  modern  art  of  fiction  seems  to  have 
learned  from  the  drama.  Meantime  the  original,  naive 
tale  has  endured,  and  doubtless  will  endure.  To  em- 
ploy the  figure  of  speech  by  which  M.  Brunetiere  is 
enabled  to  speak  of  literature  in  terms  of  evolution, 
the  tale  is  the  original  jackal.  From  it  have  been  de- 
veloped two  distinct  species;  but  their  parent  stock 
persists.  Indeed,  for  aught  we  can  see  from  the  past, 
posterity  may  behold  a  reversion  to  type. 

The  significance  of  a  division  of  ancient  and  early 
mediaeval  tales  into  anecdote  and  scenario  or  sum- 
The  De-  mary  romance  becomes  at  once  clearer 
cameron.  by  reference  to  the  greatest  mediaeval  col- 
lection, the  Decameron  (1353)  of  Boccaccio.  More 
than  half  the  tales  of  the  Decameron  may  readily 
be  grouped  as  anecdote  —  all  of  the  sixth  day,  for 
instance,  most  of  the  first  and  eighth,  half  of  the 
ninth.  Of  these  some  approach  consistency  of  form. 
Having  long  introductions,  unnecessary  lapse  of  time, 
or  other  looseness  of  structure,  they  still  work  out  a 
main  situation  in  one  day  or  one  night;  they  some- 
times show  dramatic  ingenuity  of  incident ;  less 
frequently  they  reach  distinct  climax.  Where  the 
climax,  as  in  the  majority  of  cases,  is  merely  an 
ingenious  escape  or  a  triumphant  retort,  of  course 
the  tale  remains  simple  anecdote;  but  in  some  few 
the  climax  is  the  result  of  the  action,  is  more  nearly 


INTRODUCTION  27 

a  culmination.  This  is  the  character  of  the  seventh 
day.  Another  class  in  the  Decameron  rapidly  sum- 
marises a  large  plot,  the  action  ranging  widely  in 
time  and  place.  A  narrative  sketch,  usually  of  a 
romance,  it  corresponds  essentially  to  the  Aucassin 
and  Nicolette  type,1  and  includes  nearly  one  half. 
Here  was  an  open  mine  for  the  romantic  drama  of 
later  centuries.  The  Decameron,  then,  is  almost  all 
either  anecdote  or  scenario. 

But  not  quite  all.  Besides  those  tales  which  seem 
to  show  a  working  for  consistency,  there  are  a  few 
that  definitely  achieve  it.  The  fourth  of  the  first  day 
(The  Monk,  the  Woman,  and  the  Abbot)  is  compact 
within  one  place  and  a  few  hours.  All  it  lacks  for 
short  story  is  definite  climax.  Very  like  in  compact- 
ness is  the  first  of  the  second  day  (The  Three  Floren- 
tines and  the  Body  of  the  New  Saint).  Firmer  still 
is  the  eighth  of  the  eighth  day  (Two  Husbands  and 
Two  Wives).  Here  the  climax  is  not  only  definite, 
but  is  a  solution,  and  includes  all  four  characters.  If 
it  is  not  convincing,  that  is  because  the  Decameron 
is  hardly  concerned  with  characterisation.  The  action 
covers  two  days.  It  might  almost  as  easily  have  been 
kept  within  one.  Finally  there  are  two  tales  that 
cannot,  without  hair-splitting,  be  distinguished  from 
modern  short  story.  The  second  tale  of  the  second 
day  (Rinaldo,  for  his  prayer  to  St.  Julian,  well  lodged 
in  spite  of  mishap)  is  compressed  within  a  single 
afternoon  and  night  and  a  few  miles  of  a  single  road. 
The  climax  is  definitely  a  solution.  The  movement 
is  largely  by  dialogue.  In  a  word,  the  tale  is  a  self- 

1  This,  perhaps,  is  typically  the  novella;  but  Boccaccio  will 
not  fix  the  term  :  "intendo  di  raccontare  cento  novelle,  ofavole 
o  parabole  o  istorie,  che  dire  le  vogliamo  .  .  .  nelle  quali 
novelle  .  .  "  —  Preface  to  Decameron. 


28      AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

consistent  whole.  Equally  self-consistent,  and  quite 
similar  in  method,  is  that  farce  comedy  of  errors,  the 
sixth  tale  of  the  ninth  day  (Two  Travellers  in  a 
Room  of  Three  Beds),  which  Chaucer  has  among  his 
Canterbury  Tales.  Both  these  are  short  stories.  If  the 
other  three  be  counted  with  them,  we  have  five  out  of 
a  hundred.1 

The  middle  age,  then,  had  the    short   story,  but 
did  not  recognise,  or  did  not  value,  that  opportunity. 

Not  only  does  Boccaccio  employ  the  form 
Les  Cent  n       , 

Nouveiles    seldom  and,  as  it  were,  quite  casually,  but 

Bandeilo,  subsequent  writers  do  not  carry  it  forward. 
The  Hep-  jn  factt  they  practically  ignore  it.  Les 
cent  nouvelles  nouvclles  (1450-1460),  most 
famous  of  French  collections,  shows  no  discernment 
of  Boccaccio's  nicer  art.  In  form,  as  in  subject,  there 
is  no  essential  change  from  the  habit  of  antiquity. 
True,  here  and  there  among  the  everlasting  histoires 
grivoises  is  a  piece  of  greater  consistency  and  artistic 
promise.  That  delicious  story  (the  sixth  nouvelle) 
of  the  drunken  man  who  insisted  on  making  his  con- 

1  For  reference  in  more  detailed  study  of  mediaeval  forms, 
this  tentative  classification  of  the  Decameron  may  be  tabulated 
as  follows :  — 
anecdote       55 

(a)  simple  anecdote 34^ 

I,  all  but  nov.  4 ;  III,  nov.  4 ;  V,  nov.  4 ;  VI,  entire ; 
VIII,  all  but  nov.  7  &  8;  IX,  nov.  i  &  7-10. 

(b)  anecdote  more  artistically  elaborated 21  > 

III,  nov.  I,  2,  3,  5,  6;  V,  nov.  10;   VII,  entire; 

VIII,  nov.  7  ;  IX,  nov.  2-5. 
scenario  or  summary  romance 40 

II,  nov.  3-10;  III,  nov.  7-10;  IV,  entire;  V,  all 
but  nov.  4  &  10  ;  X,  entire. 

approaching  short  story 3 

I,  nov.  4;  II,  nov.  i ;  VIII,  nov.  8. 

short  story 2 

II,  nov.  2  ;  IX,  nov.  6.  

100 


INTRODUCTION  29 

fession  on  the  highway  to  a  priest  unfortunately  pass- 
ing, who  had  absolution  at  the  point  of  the  knife,  and 
then  resolved  to  die  before  he  lapsed  from  the  state 
of  grace,  is  not  only  a  short-story  plot;  it  goes  so  far 
toward  short-story  form  as  to  focus  upon  a  few  hours. 
Yet  even  this  hints  the  short  story  to  us  because  we 
look  back  from  the  achieved  form.  After  all  it  re- 
mains anecdote ;  and  it  has  few  peers  in  all  the  huge 
collection.  Bandello  (1480-1562),  in  this  regard, 
shows  even  a  retrogression  from  Boccaccio.  His 
brief  romances  are  looser,  often  indeed  utterly  extrav- 
agant of  time  and  space.  His  anecdotes,  though  they 
often  have  a  stir  of  action,  show  less  sense  of  bringing 
people  together  on  the  stage.  So  the  Heptameron 
(1558-1559)  of  the  Queen  of  Navarre  fails  —  so  in 
general  subsequent  tale-mongers  fail  —  to  appreciate 
the  distinctive  value  of  the  terser  form.  Up  to  the 
nineteenth  century  the  short  story  was  merely  spora- 
dic. It  was  achieved  now  and  again  by  writers  of  too 
much  artistic  sense  to  be  quite  unaware  of  its  value ; 
but  it  never  took  its  place  as  an  accepted  form. 

Thus  the  modern  development  of  the  short  story 
in  France  has  both  its  own  artistic  interest  and  the 
further  historical  interest  of  background. 
When  Charles  Nodier  (1783-1844),  in  the 
time  of  our  own  Irving,  harked  back  from  the  novel 
to  the  tale,  he  but  followed  consciously  what  others 
had  followed  unconsciously,  a  tradition  of  his  race.1 
Some  of  Nodier's  legends  are  as  mediaeval  in  form  as 
in  subject.  But  when  he  wrote  La  combe  a  I'/wmme 
mart  he  made  of  the  same  material  something  which, 
emerging  here  and  there  in  the  middle  age,  waited 
for  definite  acceptance  till  Nodier's  own  time  —  a 

1  E.   Gilbert,  Le  roman  en  France  pendant  le  xix*  sftcle, 
page  65  ;  A.  France,  La  -vie  litteraire,  Ire  s^rie,  page  47. 


30     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

short  story.  The  hypothesis  that  Nodier  was  a  mas- 
ter to  Hawthorne  is  not  supported  by  any  close  like- 
ness. Yet  there  are  resemblances.  Both  loved  to 
write  tales  for  children ;  both  lapse  toward  the  overt 
moral  and  fall  easily  into  essay;  both  use  the  more 
compact  short-story  form  as  it  were  by  the  way 
and  not  from  preference.  Smarra  (66  pages,  1821), 
acknowledging  a  suggestion  from  Apuleius,  is  an 
essentially  original  fantasy,  creating  the  effect  of  a 
waking  dream.  The  nearest  English  parallel  is,  not 
Hawthorne,  but  De  Quincey,  or,  in  more  elaborate 
and  restrained  eloquence,  Landor.  Smarra,  as  Nodier 
says  in  his  preface,  is  an  exercise  in  style  to  produce 
a  certain  phantasmagorical  impression.  The  clue  to 
the  effect  he  sought  is  given  by  the  frequent  quota- 
tions from  the  Tempest.  It  is  "  such  stuff  as  dreams 
are  made  on."  Jean  Fran$ois-les-bas-bleus  (1836)  and 
Lidivine,  on  the  other  hand,  are  almost  documentary 
studies  of  character.  La  filleule  du  Seigneur  (1806), 
legendary  anecdote  like  Irving's,  shows  where  Nodier's 
art  began.  He  carried  his  art  much  further ;  but  his 
pieces  of  compactness,  like  La  combe  a  fhomme  mart, 
are  so  rare  that  one  may  doubt  their  direct  influence 
on  the  modern  development  of  form. 

For  the  bulk  of  Nodier's  work  is  not  conte,  but 
nouvelle.  These  two  terms  have  never  been  sharply 
differentiated  in  French  use.  Les  cent  nouvelles 
nouvelles  are  not  only  shorter,  in  average,  than  the 
novelle  of  Boccaccio ;  they  are  substantially  like  the 
Contes  de  la  Reine  de  Navarre.  Some  of  the  nouvelles 
of  Nodier,  M6rimee,  and  Gautier  are  indistinguish- 
able in  form  from  the  contes  of  Flaubert,  Daudet,  and 
Maupassant.  But  though  even  to-day  a  collection 
of  French  tales  might  bear  either  name,  the  short 
story  as  it  grew  in  distinctness  and  popularity  seems 


INTRODUCTION  31 

to  have  taken  more  peculiarly  to  itself  the  name 
conte.1  Correspondingly  nouvelle  is  a  convenient 
name  for  those  more  extended  tales,  written  some- 
times in  chapters,  which  in  English  are  occasionally 
called  novelettes,  and  which  have  their  type  in  Aiicas- 
sin  and  Nicolette.  In  this  sense  Nodier's  writing  is 
mainly,  and  from  preference,  nouvelle.  Taking  as  his 
type  for  modern  adaptation  the  longer  mediaeval  tale, 
he  did  not  work  in  the  direction  of  short  story. 

Nor,   oddly    enough,   did    Merimee.     People  who 
assign  to  him  the  r61e  of  pioneer  in  the  short  story, 

on  account  of  his  extraordinary  narrative 
-  I*.  - 

conciseness,  appear  to  forget  that  his  typi- 
cal tales  —  Carmen,  Colomba?  Arshie  Guillot,  are 
too  long  for  the  form ;  and  that  many  of  his  shorter 
pieces  —  Lenlevement  de  la  redoute,  Tamango,  La 
vision  de  Charles  XI.,  are  deliberately  composed 
as  descriptive  anecdotes.  Merimee's  compactness 
consists  rather  in  reducing  to  a  nouvelle  what  most 
writers  would  have  made  a  roman  than  in  focusing 
on  a  single  situation  in  a  conte.  Carmen,  though 
compact  in  its  main  structure,  has  a  long  prelude. 
Beyond  question  the  method  is  well  adapted;  but 
it  shows  no  tendency  to  short  story.  And  the  habit 
is  equally  marked  in  Le  vase  e"trusque,  with  its  super- 
fluous characters.  Evidently  his  artistic  bent,  like 
Hawthorne's,  like  Nodier's,  was  not  in  that  direction. 
All  the  more  striking,  therefore,  is  his  single  experi- 
ment. La  Vemis  tfllle  (1837)  is  definitely  and  per- 
fectly a  short  story.  Giving  the  antecedent  action 
and  the  key  in  skilful  opening  dialogue,  it  proceeds 
by  a  series  of  increasingly  stronger  premonitions  to 

1  Brander   Matthews,   The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-Story, 
page  65. 

2  Colombo,  has  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages. 


32     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

a  seizing  climax.  Like  Poe,  Merime"e  intensifies  a 
mood  till  it  can  receive  whatever  he  chooses,  but  not 
at  all  in  Poe's  way.  Instead,  the  mystery  and  horror 
are  accentuated  by  a  tone  of  worldly-wise  skepticism. 
Less  compressed,  too,  than  Poe,  he  can  be  more 
"  natural."  Withal  he  keeps  the  same  perfection  of 
grading.  Strange  that  a  man  who  did  this  once  should 
never  have  done  it  again.  But  the  single  achieve- 
ment was  marked  enough  to  compel  imitation. 

That  the  propagation  of  the  short  story  in  France 
owes  much  to  Balzac  might  readily  be  presumed  from 
the  enormous  influence  of  Balzac's  work 
in  general,  but  can  hardly  be  held  after 
scrutiny  of  his  short  pieces  in  particular.  Of  these, 
two  will  serve  to  recall  the  limitations  of  the  great 
observer.  El  Verdugo  (1829),  though  it  is  reduced 
to  two  days  and  substantially  one  scene,  hardly  real- 
ises the  gain  from  such  compression.  Instead  of  in- 
tensifying progressively,  Balzac  has  at  last  to  append 
his  conclusion,  and  for  lack  of  gradation  to  leave  his 
tale  barely  credible.  Les  Proscrits  (1831),  more  uni- 
fied in  imaginative  conception,  and  again  limited 
in  time-lapse,  again  fails  of  that  progressive  intensity 
which  is  the  very  essence  of  Poe's  force  and  Meri- 
mee's.  It  is  not  even  held  steady,  but  lapses  into 
intrusive  erudition  and  falls  into  three  quite  separate 
scenes.  Others  of  Balzac's  short  pieces,  La  messe  de 
lathee  (1836),  for  example,  and  Z.  Marcas  (1840), 
are  obviously  in  form,  like  many  of  Hawthorne's, 
essays  woven  on  anecdote  or  character.  Some  of  his 
tales  may,  indeed,  have  suggested  the  opportunity  of 
different  handling.  Some  of  them,  at  any  rate,  seem 
from  our  point  of  view  almost  to  call  for  that.  But 
his  own  handling  does  not  seem,  as  Poe's  does,  di- 
rective. And  in  general,  much  as  Balzac  had  to 


INTRODUCTION  33 

teach  his  successors,  had  he  much  to  teach  them  of 
form? 

The  tales  of  Musset,  which  are  but  incidental  in  his 
development,  and  are  confined,  most  of  them,  within 
the  years  1837-1838,  show  no  grasp  of 
form.  Gautier,  even  more  evidently  than 
Merimee,  preferred  the  nouvclle,  partly  from  indolent 
fluency,  partly  from  a  slight  sense  of  narrative  conclu- 
sion. Few  even  of  his  most  compact  contes,  such  as 
Le  nid  de  rossignols,  compress  the  time.  He  was  gar- 
rulous ;  he  had  read  Sterne J ;  above  all,  he  was  bent, 
like  Sterne,  on  description.  But  Gautier  too  shows  a 
striking  exception.  La  morte  amoureuse,  though  it 
has  not  Foe's  mechanism  of  compression,  is  other- 
wise so  startlingly  like  Poe  that  one  turns  involun- 
tarily to  the  dates.  La  morte  amoureuse  appeared 
in  1836;  Berenice,  in  1835.  The  Southern  Literary 
Messenger  could  not  have  reached  the  boulevards 
in  a  year.  Indeed,  the  debt  of  either  country  to 
the  other  can  hardly  be  proved.  Remarkable  as 
is  the  coincident  appearance  in  Paris  and  in  Rich- 
mond of  a  new  literary  form,  it  remains  a  coinci- 
dence. And  whereas  by  1837  P°e  was  m  full  career 
on  his  hobby,  Gautier  and  Merimee  did  not  repeat 
the  excursion. 

The  history  of  the  tale  in  England,  however  im- 
portant  otherwise,   is    hardly   distinct  enough   as   a 
development   of   form    to    demand    sepa-      France 
rate  discussion  here.    For  England,  appar-      and 
ently  trying  the  short-story  form  later  than      America. 
France  and  the  United  States,  apparently  also  learned 
it    from    them.      Perhaps    the    foremost    short-story 

1  See  an  essay  on  The  Literary  Influence  of  Sterne  in  France, 
Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association  of  America, 
volume  xvii,  pages  221-236. 

3 


34     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

writers  of  our  time  in  English  —  though  that  must 
still  be  a  moot  point  —  are  Kipling  and  Stevenson. 
But  Stevenson's  short  story  looks  to  France ;  and  Kip- 
ling probably  owes  much  to  the  American  magazine. 
Without  venturing  on  the  more  complicated  question 
of  the  relations  of  Germany,  Russia,1  and  Scandinavia 
to  France,  it  is  safe  to  put  forward  as  a  working  hy- 
pothesis that  the  new  form  was  invented  by  France 
and  America,  and  by  each  independently  for  itself. 
Our  priority,  if  it  be  substantiated,  can  be  but  of 
a  year  or  two.  The  important  fact  is  that  after  due 
incubation  the  new  form,  in  each  country,  has  germi- 
nated and  spread  with  extraordinary  vigor.  Daudet, 
Richepin,  Maupassant  —  to  make  a  list  of  French 
short-story  writers  in  the  time  just  past,  is  to  include 
almost  all  writers  of  eminence  in  fiction.  What  is 
true  of  France  is  even  more  obviously  true  of  the 
United  States.  Our  most  familiar  names  in  recent 
fiction  were  made  familiar  largely  through  distinction 
in  the  short  story.  The  native  American  yarn,  still 
thriving  in  spontaneous  oral  vigour,  has  been  turned 
to  various  art  in  The  Jumping  Frog  and  Marjorie  Daw 
and  The  Wreck  of  the  Thomas  Hyke.  The  capacity 
of  the  short  story  for  focusing  interest  dramatically 
on  a  strictly  limited  scene  and  a  few  hours,  no  less 
than  its  capacity  for  fixing  local  color,  is  exhibited 
most  strikingly  in  the  human  significance  of  Posson 
Jone.  Mr.  James,  though  his  preoccupation  with 
scientific  analysis  demands  typically,  as  it  demanded 
of  Merimee,  a  somewhat  larger  scope,  vindicates  his 
skill  more  obviously  in  such  intense  pieces  of  com- 
pression as  The  Great  Good  Place.  To  instance  further 
would  but  lead  into  catalogue.  In  a  word,  the  two 

1  It  would  be  interesting,  for  instance,  to  determine  whether 
Me'rime'e  learned  anything  in  form  from  Poushkin. 


INTRODUCTION  35 

nations  that  have  in  our  time  shown  keenest  con- 
sciousness of  form  in  fiction  have  most  fostered  the 
short  story.  For  ourselves,  we  may  find  in  this  de- 
velopment of  a  literary  form  one  warrant  for  asserting 
that  we  have  a  literary  history. 


PART   I 
THE     TENTATIVE    PERIOD 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 

1783-1859 

FOR  a  discussion  of  Irving  in  general,  and  of  Rip  Van  Winkle 
in  particular,  see  pages  6-9  of  the  Introduction.  The  pseudo- 
documentary  notes  before  and  after  the  tale  show  incidentally 
the  strong  contemporary  influence  of  Scott.  The  text  is  that 
of  the  first  edition  (1819). 


(THE  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who 
was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the 
manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His 
historical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books 
as  among  men;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his 
favourite  topics;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still 
more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore  so  invaluable  to 
true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genu- 
ine Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse, 
under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little 
clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal 
of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  prov- 
ince during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  pub- 
lished some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as 
to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is 
not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scru- 
pulous accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on  its 
first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  completely  established; 
and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections  as  a  book 
of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
work,  and  now,  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much 
harm  to  his  memory,  to  say,  that  his  time  might  have  been  much 
better  employed  in  weightier  labours.  He,  however,  was  apt  to 
ride  his  hobby  in  his  own  way;  and  though  it  did  now  and 
then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours,  and 
grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest 
deference  and  affection ;  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remem- 
bered "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,1 "  and  it  begins  to  be  sus- 
pected that  he  never  intended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however 
his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear 
among  many  folk,  whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth  having; 
particularly  by  certain  biscuit  bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as 
to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  New  Year  cakes,  and  have  thus 
given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  the  being 
stamped  on  a  Waterloo  medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.) 

1  Vide  the  excellent  discourse  of  G.  C.  Verplanck,  Esq.,  before  the  New 
York  Historical  Society. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

A  POSTHUMOUS  WRITING   OF   DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

[From  the  "  Sketch  Book,"  1819-1820] 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre CARTWRIGHT. 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson,  must 
remember  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dis- 
membered branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are 
seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble 
height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every 
change  of  season,  every  change  of  weather,  indeed,  every 
hour  of  the  day,  produces  some  change  in  the  magical  hues 
and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by 
all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers. 
When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in 
blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear 
evening  sky ;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapours 
about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 
whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of 
the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiq- 
39 


4o   "AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

uity,  having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists, 
in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning 
of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he 
rest  in  peace  !),  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the 
original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years  with  lattice 
windows,  gable  fronts  surmounted  with  weathercocks,  and 
built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses, 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  timeworn  and 
weatherbeaten,)  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple 
goodnatured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gal- 
lantly in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He 
inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of 
his  ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good- 
natured  man ;  he  was  moreover  a  kind  neighbour,  and  an 
obedient,  henpecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  cir- 
cumstance might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which 
gained  him  such  universal  popularity ;  for  those  men  are 
most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are 
under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers, 
doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery 
furnace  of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a  curtain  lecture  is 
worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues 
of  patience  and  long  suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may, 
therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  tolerable  bles- 
sing ;  and  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favourite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable 
sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never  failed, 
whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening 
gossippings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
The  children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy  when- 
ever he  approached.  He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made 
their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles, 


WASHINGTON -IRVING  41 

and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians. 
Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clamber- 
ing on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with 
impunity ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the 
neighbourhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labour.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance ;  for  he  would 
sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a 
Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even 
though  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble. 
He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder,  for  hours 
together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons. 
He  would  never  even  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbour  in  the 
roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolicks 
for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone  fences.  The 
women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 
errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging 
husbands  would  not  do  for  them ;  —  in  a  word,  Rip  was 
ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own ;  but  as 
to  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  it 
was  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm ; 
it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole 
country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling 
to  pieces ;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among 
the  cabbages;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his 
fields  than  anywhere  else ;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of 
setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so 
that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under 
his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more 
left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it 
was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighbourhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 


42     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in 
his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the 
old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping 
like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his 
father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in 
bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the 
world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be 
got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve 
on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he 
would  have  whistled  life  away,  in  perfect  contentment ;  but 
his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idle- 
ness, his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his 
family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  inces- 
santly going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to 
produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but 
one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that, 
by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said 
nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 
from  his  wife,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces, 
and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house  —  the  only  side  which, 
in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was 
as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle 
regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked 
upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's 
so  often  going  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  be- 
fitting an  honourable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal 
as  ever  scoured  the  woods  —  but  what  courage  can  with- 
stand the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's 
tongue?  The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house,  his  crest 
fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his 
legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a 
sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  43 

flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  would  fly  to  the  door 
with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on ;  a  tart  temper  never  mellows 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that 
grows  keener  by  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used 
to  console  himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting 
a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and 
other  idle  personages  of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessions 
on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund 
portrait  of  his  majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used 
to  sit  in  the  shade,  of  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talk- 
ing listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any 
statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions 
which  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old  news- 
paper fell  into  their  hands,  from  some  passing  traveller. 
How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled 
out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper 
learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most 
gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary ;  and  how  sagely  they  would 
deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after  they  had 
taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of 
the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and 
keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbours 
could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by 
a  sun  dial.  It  is  true,  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but 
smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents,  however,  (for 
every  great  man  has  his  adherents,)  perfectly  understood 
him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  any- 
thing that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was 
observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  send  forth 
short,  frequent,  and  angry  puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he 
would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it 


44     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

in  light  and  placid  clouds,  and  sometimes  taking  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapour  curl  about 
his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect 
approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call  the  mem- 
bers all  to  nought ;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas 
Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terri- 
ble virago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her 
husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair ;  and  his 
only  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labour  of  the  farm  and 
clamour  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand,  and  stroll  away 
into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at 
the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with 
Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow  sufferer  in  per- 
secution. "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads 
thee  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  while  I 
live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee  ! " 
Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated 
the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day,  Rip 
had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of 
the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favourite  sport 
of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed 
and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and 
fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green 
knoll,  covered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the 
brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees, 
he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of 
rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson, 
far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course, 
the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging 
bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at 
last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  45 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain 
glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  frag- 
ments from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the 
reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay 
musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was  gradually  advancing, 
the  mountains  began  to  throw  their  long,  blue  shadows  over 
the  valleys,  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dark  long  before  he 
could  reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when 
he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  " 
He  looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  wing- 
ing its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his 
fancy  must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  de- 
scend, when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still 
evening  air;  "Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  —  at 
the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low 
growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down 
into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him ;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and 
perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and 
bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his 
back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this 
lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to  be 
some  one  of  the  neighbourhood  in  need  of  his  assistance, 
he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short 
square  built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled 
beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion  —  a 
cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist  —  several  pair  of 
breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with 
rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees. 
He  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of 
liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him 
with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 


46     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity, 
and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clambered  up  a 
narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent. 
As  they  ascended,  Rip  ever}'  now  and  then  heard  long 
rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out 
of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft  between  lofty  rocks,  toward 
which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of 
those  transient  thunder  showers  which  often  take  place  in 
mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ra- 
vine, they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre, 
surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of 
which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you 
only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky,  and  the  bright  even- 
ing cloud.  During  the  whole  time,  Rip  and  his  compan- 
ion had  laboured  on  in  silence ;  for  though  the  former 
marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a 
keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  some- 
thing strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown, 
that  inspired  awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was 
a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fashion :  some 
wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in 
their  belts,  and  most  had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar 
style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were 
peculiar :  one  had  a  large  head,  broad  face,  and  small  pig- 
gish eyes ;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely 
of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat, 
set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of 
various  shapes  and  colours.  There  was  one  who  seemed 
to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman, 
with  a  weather-beaten  countenance ;  he  wore  a  laced 
doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high  crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high  heeled  shoes,  with  roses 
in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  47 

an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlour  of  Dominie  Van 
Schaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been  brought 
over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip,  was  that  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he 
had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of 
the  scene,  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they 
were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rumbling 
peals  of  thunder.  - 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such 
fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack- 
lustre countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and 
his  knees  smote  together.  His  companion  now  emptied 
the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs 
to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear 
and  trembling;  they  quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence, 
and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees,  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste 
the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavour  of 
excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and 
was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  pro- 
voked another,  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so 
often,  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes 
swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  awaking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  from 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes  —  it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The 
birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and 
the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  moun- 
tain breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept 
here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell 
asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor  —  the  moun- 


48      AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

tain  ravine  —  the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks  —  the 
woe-begone  party  at  nine-pins  —  the  flagon  —  "  Oh  !  that 
flagon  !  that  wicked  flagon  !  "  thought  Rip  —  "  what  excuse 
shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and 
the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave 
roysters  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and 
having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun. 
Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed 
away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him, 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated  his 
whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his 
dog  and  gun.  As' he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in 
the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  moun- 
tain beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this 
frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall 
have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle. "  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen ;  he  found  the  gully  up 
which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was 
now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling 
the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift 
to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch  hazle,  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape  vines  that  twisted 
their  coils  and  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs,  to  the  amphitheatre ;  but  no  traces  of 
such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  im- 
penetrable wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a 
sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin, 
black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here, 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  49 

then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called 
and  whistled  after  his  dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the 
cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a 
dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure 
in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  the 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want 
of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun ; 
he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve 
among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the 
rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people, 
but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him, 
for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in 
the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different 
fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all 
stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever 
they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their 
chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced 
Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long  ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop 
of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  none  of  which 
he  recognized  for  his  old  acquaintances,  barked  at  him  as 
he  passed.  The  very  village  was  altered :  it  was  larger 
and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which 
he  had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been 
his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were 
over  the  doors  —  strange  faces  at  the  windows  —  everything 
was  strange.  His  mind  now  began  to  misgive  him;  he 
doubted  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were 
not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he 
had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill 
mountains  —  there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance 
—  there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always 
4 


50     AMERICAN  SHORT   STORIES 

been  —  Rip  was  sorely  perplexed  — "  That  flagon  last 
night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  ray  poor  head  sadly  ! " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  he  found  the  way  to  his  own 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half- 
starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf,  was  skulking  about  it. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his 
teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed  — 
"  My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty, 
forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears  —  he  called  loudly  for  his  wife 
and  children  —  the  lonely  chambers  rung  for  a  moment 
with  his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the 
little  village  inn  —  but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  ricketty 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  win- 
dows, some  of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and 
petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "The  Union 
Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree 
which  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there 
now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the 
top  that  looked  like  a  red  nightcap,  and  from  it  was  flutter- 
ing a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and 
stripes  —  all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He 
recognised  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful 
pipe,  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The 
red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was 
stuck  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was  deco- 
rated with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in 
large  characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  whom  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  th»  <>eo 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  51 

pie  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputa- 
tious tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and 
drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicho- 
las Vedder,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long 
pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  instead  of  idle 
speeches ;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth 
the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a 
lean  bilious  looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  hand- 
bills, was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens  — 
election  —  members  of  Congress  —  liberty  —  Bunker's  Hill 
—  heroes  of  '76  —  and  other  words,  that  were  a  perfect 
Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling  piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of 
women  and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels,  soon 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They 
crowded  around  him,  eying  him  from  head  to  foot,  with 
great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  draw- 
ing him  partly  aside,  inquired  "  on  which  side  he  voted  ?  " 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy 
little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and  raising  on  tiptoe, 
inquired  in  his  ear,  "  whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat." 
Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question ; 
when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp 
cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them 
to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and 
planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo, 
the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat 
penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded,  in  an 
austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun 
on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he 
meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village  ?  "  "  Alas  !  gentle- 
men," cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I  am  a  poor  quiet 
man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  King, 
God  bless  him  !  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders  —  "A 
tory !  a  tory  !  a  spy !  a  refugee  !  hustle  him  !  away  with 


52      AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

him  ! "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-impor- 
tant man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order;  and  having 
assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of 
the  unknown  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom 
he  was  seeking.  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that 
he  meant  no  harm ;  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of 
some  of  his  neighbours,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

«\Vell  —  who  are  they?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "  where  's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder?  why 
he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a 
wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all 
about  him,  but  that's  rotted  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Butcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Stoney- Point 
—  others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall,  at  the  foot  of 
Antony's  Nose.  I  don't  know  —  he  never  came  back 
again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia  gen- 
eral, and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such 
enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could 
not  understand  :  war  —  Congress  —  Stoney  Point !  —  he 
had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out 
in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three,  "Oh, 
to  be  sure  !  that 's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself, 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as  lazy,  and  cer- 
tainly as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  con- 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  53 

founded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he 
was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilder- 
ment, the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was, 
and  what  was  his  name? 

" God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end ;  "I'm  not 
myself —  I  'm  somebody  else  —  that 's  me  yonder  —  no  — 
that 's  somebody  else,  got  into  my  shoes  —  I  was  myself 
last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they  've 
changed  my  gun,  and  everything 's  changed,  and  I  'm 
changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore- 
heads. There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief;  at  the  very 
suggestion  of  which,  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment 
a  fresh  likely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a 
peep  at  the  graybearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child 
in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  .little  fool,  the  old 
man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of 
the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of 
recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your  name,  my  good 
woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van  Winkle ;  it 's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun, 
and  never  has  been  heard  of  since  —  his  dog  came  home 
without  him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried 
away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a 
little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it  with 
a  faltering  voice  : 

"  Where 's  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ;  she  broke  a 
blood  vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-England  peddler." 


54     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  —  He 
caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  —  "I  am 
your  father  !  "  cried  he  —  "  Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once 
—  old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now  !  —  Does  nobody  know  poor 
Rip  Van  Winkle  !  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peer- 
ing under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "Sure 
enough  !  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle  —  it  is  himself.  Welcome 
home  again,  old  neighbour.  —  Why,  where  have  you  been 
these  twenty  long  years?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbours  stared  when 
they  heard  it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and 
put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks;  and  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over, 
had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of 
his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head  —  upon  which  there  was  a 
general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province. 
Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and 
well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of 
the  neighbourhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  cor- 
roborated his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He 
assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from 
his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  mountains  had 
always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was  affirmed 
that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the 
river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty 
years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half-moon,  being  permitted  in 
this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprize,  and  keep  a 
guardian  eye  upon  the  river,  and  the  great  city  called  by  his 
name.  That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  55 

Dutch  dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  moun- 
tain; and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer  after- 
noon, the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  long  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her ;  she  had  a 
snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer  for  a 
husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir, 
who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the 
tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced 
an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his 
business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time ;  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great  favour. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  do  nothing  with  impunity,  he 
took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench,  at  the  inn  door,  and 
was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and 
a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some 
time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip, 
or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that 
had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had 
been  a  revolutionary  war  —  that  the  country  had  thrown  off 
the  yoke  of  old  England  —  and  that,  instead  of  being  a 
subject  of  his  Majesty,  George  III.,  he  was  now  a  free  citi- 
zen of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician ; 
the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impres- 
sion on  him ;  but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under 
which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was  —  petticoat  gov- 
ernment; happily,  that  was  at  an  end;  he  had  got  his 
neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and 
out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned, 


56     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
cast  up  his  eyes ;  which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression 
of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at 
Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on 
some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless, 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled 
down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  the  neighbourhood  but  knew  it  by  heart. 
Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  in- 
sisted that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was 
one  point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full 
credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a  thunder  storm 
of  a  summer  afternoon,  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine- 
pins ;  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands 
in  the  neighbourhood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their 
hands,  that  they  might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip 
Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE 

THE  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  and  the  Kypphauser  mountain;  the  sub- 
joined note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows 
that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many, 
but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity 
of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  mar- 
vellous events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many 
stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson ;  all 
of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I 
have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last 
I  saw  him,  was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly 
rational  and  consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no 
conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain; 
nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  57 

country  justice  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own 
handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of 
a  doubt. 

«D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT i 

THE  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum  book 
of  Mr.  Knickerbocker : 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a 
region  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode 
of  spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or 
clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting 
seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be 
their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills, 
and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut 
them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moon  in  the 
skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought, 
if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds 
out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the 
crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded 
cotton,  to  float  in  the  air ;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the 
sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to 
spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an 
hour.  If  displeased,  however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black 
as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider 
in  the  midst  of  its  web ;  and  when  these  clouds  broke,  woe 
betide  the  valleys ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreak- 
ing all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Some- 
times he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer, 
lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled 
forests  and  among  ragged  rocks ;  and  then  spring  off  with  a 
loud  ho !  ho !  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling 
precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a 
great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and, 
from  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild 
flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the 
name  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake, 

1  Not  in  the  first  edition. 


58      AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking  in 
the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface. 
This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that 
the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  pre- 
cincts. Once  upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter  who  had  lost  his 
way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number 
of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he 
seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he 
let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth, 
which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where 
he  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the 
Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day ;  being  the 
identical  stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaterskill. 


WILLIAM  AUSTIN 

1778-1841 

WILLIAM  AUSTIN  was  a  Boston  lawyer  of  literary  tastes.  He 
saw  something  of  the  world  in  his  cruises  (1799-1800)  on  the 
"  Constitution  "  as  chaplain,  and  of  society  during  his  eighteen 
months  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  An  account  of  his  life  and  works  is 
prefixed  to  the  collective  edition,  now  out  of  print,  edited  by 
his  son,  John  Walker  Austin  (The  Literary  Papers  of  William 
Austin,  Boston,  1890).  This  also  reprints  a  large  part  of.  Col. 
T.  W.  Higginson's  "  A  Precursor  of  Hawthorne  "  {Independent, 
2gth  March,  1888.  A  reference  will  also  be  found  at  pages 
64  and  68  of  Col.  Higginson's  Longfellow}.  Of  his  few  tales 
only  Peter  Rugg  has  had  any  currency.  Indeed,  the  signifi- 
cance of  Austin's  narrative  art  is  mainly  negative.  Even  Peter 
Rtigg  shows  wherein  what  might  have  been  a  short  story  failed 
of  its  form.  For  all  its  undoubted  quality,  it  is  a  short  story 
manque;  and  in  this  it  is  quite*  typical  of  its  time.  If  artistic 
sense  is  apparent  in  the  cumulation  of  foreshadowings,  crudity 
of  mechanism  is  equally  apparent  in  the  management  of  each 
through  a  different  interlocutor.  It  is  artistically  right  that 
Rugg  should  at  last  be  brought  home ;  it  is  artistically  wrong 
that  the  conclusion  should  be  so  like  a  moralising  summary.  A 
conception  much  like  Hawthorne's  is  developed  as  it  were  by 
mere  accumulation  instead  of  being  focused  in  a  unified  pro- 
gression. (See  also  pages  10  and  12  of  the  Introduction.) 


PETER  RUGG,   THE   MISSING 

MAN 

[First  part  printed  in  Buckingham's  "  New  England  Galaxy," 
10th  September,  1824;  several  times  reprinted  entire,  e.  g.,  in  the 
"  Boston  Book  "  for  1841 ;  reprinted  here  from  the  standard  col- 
lection noted  above] 

From  JONATHAN  DUNWELL  <T/"NEW  YORK  to  MR.  HERMAN  KRAUFF 

SIR,  —  Agreeably  to  my  promise,  I  now  relate  to  you 
all   the  particulars  of  the  lost  man  and  child  which 
I  have  been  able  to  collect.     It  is  entirely  owing  to  the 
humane  interest  you  seemed  to  take  in  the  report,  that  I 
have  pursued  the  inquiry  to  the  following  result. 

You  may  remember  that  business  called  me  to  Boston  in 
the  summer  of  1820.  I  sailed  in  the  packet  to  Providence, 
and  when  I  arrived  there  I  learned  that  every  seat  in  the 
stage  was  engaged.  I  was  thus  obliged  either  to  wait  a  few 
hours  or  accept  a  seat  with  the  driver,  who  civilly  offered 
me  that  accommodation.  Accordingly,  I  took  my  seat  by 
his  side,  and  soon  found  him  intelligent  and  communica- 
tive. When  we  had  travelled  about  ten  miles,  the  horses 
suddenly  threw  their  ears  on  their  necks,  as  flat  as  a  hare's. 
Said  the  driver,  "  Have  you  a  surtout  with  you?  " 

"No,"  said  I ;  "  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  You  will  want  one  soon,"  said  he.  "  Do  you  observe 
the  ears  of  all  the  horses?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  was  just  about  to  ask  the  reason." 

"  They  see  the  storm-breeder,  and  we  shall  see  him 
soon." 

61 


62     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

At  this  moment  there  was  not  a  cloud  visible  in  the 
firmament.  Soon  after,  a  small  speck  appeared  in  the 
road. 

"  There,"  said  my  companion,  "  comes  the  storm-breeder. 
He  always  leaves  a  Scotch  mist  behind  him.  By  many  a 
wet  jacket  do  I  remember  him.  I  suppose  the  poor  fellow 
suffers  much  himself,  —  much  more  than  is  known  to  the 
world." 

Presently  a  man  with  a  child  beside  him,  with  a  large 
black  horse,  and  a  weather-beaten  chair,  once  built  for 
a  chaise- body,  passed  in  great  haste,  apparently  at  the  rate 
of  twelve  miles  an  hour.  He  seemed  to  grasp  the  reins  of 
his  horse  with  firmness,  and  appeared  to  anticipate  his 
speed.  He  seemed  dejected,  and  looked  anxiously  at  the 
passengers,  particularly  at  the  stage-driver  and  myself.  In 
a  moment  after  he  passed  us,  the  horses'  ears  were  up,  and 
bent  themselves  forward  so  that  they  nearly  met. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  said  I;  "he  seems  in  great 
trouble." 

"  Nobody  knows  who  he  is,  but  his  person  and  the  child 
are  familiar  to  me.  I  have  met  him  more  than  a  hundred 
times,  and  have  been  so  often  asked  the  way  to  Boston  by 
that  man,  even  when  he  was  travelling  directly  from  that 
town,  that  of  late  I  have  refused  any  communication  with 
him ;  and  that  is  the  reason  he  gave  me  such  a  fixed  look." 

"  But  does  he  never  stop  anywhere  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  known  him  to  stop  anywhere  longer  than 
to  inquire  the  way  to  Boston ;  and  let  him  be  where  he 
may,  he  will  tell  you  he  cannot  stay  a  moment,  for  he  must 
reach  Boston  that  night." 

We  were  now  ascending  a  high  hill  in  Walpole ;  and  as 
we  had  a  fair  view  of  the  heavens,  I  was  rather  disposed  to 
jeer  the  driver  for  thinking  of  his  surtout,  as  not  a  cloud  as 
big  as  a  marble  could  be  discerned. 

"  Do  you  look,"  said  he,  "  in  the  direction  whence  the 
man  came;  that  is  the  place  to  look.  The  storm  never 
meets  him;  it  follows  him." 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  63 

We  presently  approached  another  hill ;  and  when  at  the 
height,  the  driver  pointed  out  in  an  eastern  direction  a 
little  black  speck  about  as  big  as  a  hat.  "  There,"  said  he, 
"  is  the  seed-storm.  We  may  possibly  reach  Policy's  be- 
fore it  reaches  us,  but  the  wanderer  and  his  child  will  go  to 
Providence  through  rain,  thunder,  and  lightning." 

And  now  the  horses;  as  though  taught  by  instinct,  has- 
tened with  increased  speed.  The  little  black  cloud  came 
on  rolling  over  the  turnpike,  and  doubled  and  trebled  itself 
in  all  directions.  The  appearance  of  this  cloud  attracted 
the  notice  of  all  the  passengers,  for  after  it  had  spread  itself 
to  a  great  bulk  it  suddenly  became  more  limited  in  circum- 
ference, grew  more  compact,  dark,  and  consolidated.  And 
now  the  successive  flashes  of  chain  lightning  caused  the 
whole  cloud  to  appear  like  a  sort  of  irregular  net-work, 
and  displayed  a  thousand  fantastic  images.  The  driver 
bespoke  my  attention  to  a  remarkable  configuration  in  the 
cloud.  He  said  every  flash  of  lightning  near  its  centre 
discovered  to  him,  distinctly,  the  form  of  a  man  sitting  in 
an  open  carriage  drawn  by  a  black  horse.  But  in  truth  I 
saw  no  such  thing ;  the  man's  fancy  was  doubtless  at  fault. 
It  is  a  very  common  thing  for  the  imagination  to  paint  for 
the  senses,  both  in  the  visible  and  invisible  world. 

In  the  mean  time  the  distant  thunder  gave  notice  of  a 
shower  at  hand ;  and  just  as  we  reached  Policy's  tavern 
the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents.  It  was  soon  over,  the 
cloud  passing  in  the  direction  of  the  turnpike  toward  Provi- 
dence. In  a  few  moments  after,  a  respectable-looking  man 
in  a  chaise  stopped  at  the  door.  The  man  and  child  in 
the  chair  having  excited  some  little  sympathy  among  the 
passengers,  the  gentleman  was  asked  if  he  had  observed 
them.  He  said  he  had  met  them ;  that  the  man  seemed 
bewildered,  and  inquired  the  way  to  Boston ;  that  he  was 
driving  at  great  speed,  as  though  he  expected  to  outstrip 
the  tempest;  that  the  moment  he  had  passed  him,  a 
thunder-clap  broke  directly  over  the  man's  head,  and 
seemed  to  envelop  both  man  and  child,  horse  and  carriage. 


64     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  I  stopped,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  supposing  the  lightning 
had  struck  him,  but  the  horse  only  seemed  to  loom  up  and 
increase  his  speed ;  and  as  well  as  I  could  judge,  he  trav- 
elled just  as  fast  as  the  thunder-cloud." 

While  this  man  was  speaking,  a  pedler  with  a  cart  of  tin 
merchandise  came  up,  all  dripping;  and  on  being  ques- 
tioned, he  said  he  had  met  that  man  and  carriage,  within  a 
fortnight,  in  four  different  States ;  that  at  each  time  he  had 
inquired  the  way  to  Boston  ;  and  that  a  thunder- shower  like 
the  present  had  each  time  deluged  his  wagon  and  his  wares, 
setting  his  tin  pots,  etc.  afloat,  so  that  he  had  determined 
to  get  a  marine  insurance  for  the  future.  But  that  which 
excited  his  surprise  most  was  the  strange  conduct  of  his 
horse,  for  long  before  he  could  distinguish  the  man  in  the 
chair,  his  own  horse  stood  still  in  the  road,  and  flung  back 
his  ears.  "  In  short,"  said  the  pedler,  "  I  wish  never  to 
see  that  man  and  horse  again ;  they  do  not  look  to  me  as 
though  they  belonged  to  this  world." 

This  was  all  I  could  learn  at  that  time ;  and  the  occur- 
rence soon  after  would  have  become  with  me,  "  like  one  of 
those  things  which  had  never  happened,"  had  I  not,  as  I 
stood  recently  on  the  door-step  of  Bennett's  hotel  in  Hart- 
ford, heard  a  man  say,  "  There  goes  Peter  Rugg  and  his 
child  !  he  looks  wet  and  weary,  and  farther  from  Boston 
than  ever."  I  was  satisfied  it  was  the  same  man  I  had  seen 
more  than  three  years  before ;  for  whoever  has  once  seen 
Peter  Rugg  can  never  after  be  deceived  as  to  his  identity. 

"  Peter  Rugg  !  "  said  I ;  "  and  who  is  Peter  Rugg?  " 

"  That,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is  more  than  any  one  can 
tell  exactly.  He  is  a  famous  traveller,  held  in  light  esteem 
by  all  innholders,  for  he  never  stops  to  eat,  drink,  or  sleep. 
I  wonder  why  the  government  does  not  employ  him  to 
carry  the  mail." 

"Ay,"  said  a  by-stander,  "that  is  a  thought  bright  only 
on  one  side ;  how  long  would  it  take  in  that  case  to  send 
a  letter  to  Boston,  for  Peter  has  already,  to  my  knowledge, 
been  more  than  twenty  years  travelling  to  that  place." 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  65 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  does  the  man  never  stop  anywhere ; 
does  he  never  converse  with  any  one?  I  saw  the  same 
man  more  than  three  years  since,  near  Providence,  and  I 
heard  a  strange  story  about  him.  Pray,  sir,  give  me  some 
account  of  this  man." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  those  who  know  the  most  re- 
specting that  man,  say  the  least.  I  have  heard  it  asserted 
that  Heaven  sometimes  sets  a  mark  on  a  man,  either  for 
judgment  or  a  trial.  Under  which  Peter  Rugg  now  labors, 
I  cannot  say ;  therefore  I  am  rather  inclined  to  pity  than 
to  judge." 

"  You  speak  like  a  humane  man,"  said  I ;  "  and  if  you  have 
known  him  so  long,  I  pray  you  will  give  me  some  account  of 
him.  Has  his  appearance  much  altered  in  that  time  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  He  looks  as  though  he  never  ate,  drank,  or 
slept ;  and  his  child  looks  older  than  himself,  and  he  looks 
like  time  broken  off  from  eternity,  and  anxious  to  gain  a 
resting-place." 

"  And  how  does  his  horse  look?  "  said  I. 

"  As  for  his  horse,  he  looks  fatter  and  gayer,  and  shows 
more  animation  and  courage  than  he  did  twenty  years  ago. 
The  last  time  Rugg  spoke  to  me  he  inquired  how  far  it  was 
to  Boston.  I  told  him  just  one  hundred  miles." 

" '  Why,'  said  he,  '  how  can  you  deceive  me  so  ?  It  is 
cruel  to  mislead  a  traveller.  I  have  lost  my  way;  pray 
direct  me  the  nearest  way  to  Boston.' 

"  I  repeated,  it  was  one  hundred  miles. 

" '  How  can  you  say  so  ? '  said  he ;  '  I  was  told  last  even- 
ing it  was  but  fifty,  and  I  have  travelled  all  night.' 

"  '  But,'  said  I,  '  you  are  now  travelling  from  Boston. 
You  must  turn  back.' 

"  '  Alas,'  said  he,  '  it  is  all  turn  back  !  Boston  shifts 
with  the  wind,  and  plays  all  around  the  compass.  One 
man  tells  me  it  is  to  the  east,  another  to  the  west ;  and  the 
guide-posts  too,  they  all  point  the  wrong  way.' 

"  '  But  will  you  not  stop  and  rest  ?  '  said  I ;  '  you  seem 
wet  and  weary.' 

5 


66     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  *  Yes,'  said  he,  '  it  has  been  foul  weather  since  I  left 
home.' 

"  *  Stop,  then,  and  refresh  yourself.' 

" '  I  must  not  stop ;  I  must  reach  home  to-night,  if  pos- 
sible :  though  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  in  the  distance 
to  Boston.' 

"  He  then  gave  the  reins  to  his  horse,  which  he  restrained 
with  difficulty,  and  disappeared  in  a  moment.  A  few  days 
afterward  I  met  the  man  a  little  this  side  of  Claremont,1 
winding  around  the  hills  in  Unity,  at  the  rate,  I  believe,  of 
twelve  miles  an  hour." 

"  Is  Peter  Rugg  his  real  name,  or  has  he  accidentally 
gained  that  name?  " 

"  I  know  not,  but  presume  he  will  not  deny  his  name ; 
you  can  ask  him,  —  for  see,  he  has  turned  his  horse,  and 
is  passing  this  way." 

In  a  moment  a  dark-colored,  high-spirited  horse  ap- 
proached, and  would  have  passed  without  stopping,  but  I 
had  resolved  to  speak  to  Peter  Rugg,  or  whoever  the  man 
might  be.  Accordingly  I  stepped  into  the  street ;  and  as 
the  horse  approached,  I  made  a  feint  of  stopping  him. 
The  man  immediately  reined  in  his  horse.  "  Sir,"  said  I, 
"  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  inquire  if  you  are  not  Mr.  Rugg  ? 
for  I  think  I  have  seen  you  before." 

"  My  name  is  Peter  Rugg,"  said  he.  "  I  have  unfortu- 
nately lost  my  way ;  I  am  wet  and  weary,  and  will  take  it 
kindly  of  you  to  direct  me  to  Boston." 

"  You  live  in  Boston,  do  you ;  and  in  what  street  ?  " 

"  In  Middle  Street." 

"When  did  you  leave  Boston?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  precisely ;  it  seems  a  considerable  time." 

"  But  how  did  you  and  your  child  become  so  wet?  It 
has  not  rained  here  to-day." 

"  It  has  just  rained  a  heavy  shower  up  the  river.  But 
I  shall  not  reach  Boston  to-night  if  I  tarry.  Would  you 
advise  me  to  take  the  old  road  or  the  turnpike  ?  " 

1  In  New  Hampshire. 


WILLIAM    AUSTIN  67 

"  Why,  the  old  road  is  one  hundred  and  seventeen  miles, 
and  the  turnpike  is  ninety-seven." 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ?  You  impose  on  me ;  it  is  wrong 
to  trifle  with  a  traveller;  you  know  it  is  but  forty  miles 
from  Newburyport  to  Boston." 

"  But  this  is  not  Newburyport ;  this  is  Hartford." 

"  Do  not  deceive  me,  sir.  Is  not  this  town  Newburyport, 
and  the  river  that  I  have  been  following  the  Merrimack?" 

"  No,  sir ;  this  is  Hartford,  and  the  river  the  Connecticut." 

He  wrung  his  hands  and  looked  incredulous.  "  Have 
the  rivers,  too,  changed  their  courses,  as  the  cities  have 
changed  places  ?  But  see !  the  clouds  are  gathering  in 
the  south,  and  we  shall  have  a  rainy  night.  Ah,  that 
fatal  oath  !  " 

He  would  tarry  no  longer;  his  impatient  horse  leaped 
off,  his  hind  flanks  rising  like  wings ;  he  seemed  to  devour 
all  before  him,  and  to  scorn  all  behind. 

I  had  now,  as  I  thought,  discovered  a  clew  to  the  history 
of  Peter  Rugg ;  and  I  determined,  the  next  time  my  busi- 
ness called  me  to  Boston,  to  make  a  further  inquiry.  Soon 
after,  I  was  enabled  to  collect  the  following  particulars  from 
Mrs.  Croft,  an  aged  lady  in  Middle  Street,  who  has  resided 
in  Boston  during  the  last  twenty  years.  Her  narration  is 
this: 

Just  at  twilight  last  summer  a  person  stopped  at  the 
door  of  the  late  Mrs.  Rugg.  Mrs.  Croft  on  coming  to  the 
door  perceived  a  stranger,  with  a  child  by  his  side,  in  an 
old  weather-beaten  carriage,  with  a  black  horse.  The 
stranger  asked  for  Mrs.  Rugg,  and  was  informed  that  Mrs. 
Rugg  had  died  at  a  good  old  age,  more  than  twenty  years 
before  that  time. 

The  stranger  replied,  "  How  can  you  deceive  me  so  ? 
Do  ask  Mrs.  Rugg  to  step  to  the  door." 

"  Sir,  I  assure  you  Mrs.  Rugg  has  not  lived  here  these 
twenty  years ;  no  one  lives  here  but  myself,  and  my  name 
is  Betsy  Croft." 

The  stranger  paused,  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  and 


68     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

said,  "  Though  the  paint  is  rather  faded,  this  looks   like 
my  house." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child,  "  that  is  the  stone  before  the  door 
that  I  used  to  sit  on  to  eat  my  bread  and  milk." 

"  But,"  said  the  stranger,  "  it  seems  to  be  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  street.  Indeed,  everything  here  seems  to  be 
misplaced.  The  streets  are  all  changed,  the  people  are 
all  changed,  the  town  seems  changed,  and  what  is  strangest 
of  all,  Catherine  Rugg  has  deserted  her  husband  and  child. 
Pray,"  continued  the  stranger,  "  has  John  Foy  come  home 
from  sea?  He  went  a  long  voyage;  he  is  my  kinsman. 
If  I  could  see  him,  he  could  give  me  some  account  of 
Mrs.  Rugg." 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Croft,  "  I  never  heard  of  John  Foy. 
Where  did  he  live?" 

"Just  above  here,  in  Orange-tree  Lane." 

"There  is  no  such  place  in  this  neighborhood." 

"What  do  you  tell  me  !  Are  the  streets  gone?  Orange- 
tree  Lane  is  at  the  head  of  Hanover  Street,  near  Pember- 
ton's  Hill." 

"  There  is  .no  such  lane  now." 

"  Madam,  you  cannot  be  serious !  But  you  doubtless 
know  my  brother,  William  Rugg.  He  lives  in  Royal  Ex- 
change Lane,  near  King  Street." 

"  I  know  of  no  such  lane ;  and  I  am  sure  there  is  no 
such  street  as  King  Street  in  this  town." 

"  No  such  street  as  King  Street !  Why,  woman,  you 
mock  me  !  You  may  as  well  tell  me  there  is  no  King 
George.  However,  madam,  you  see  I  am  wet  and  weary, 
I  must  find  a  resting-place.  I  will  go  to  Hart's  tavern, 
near  the  market." 

f  "Which  market,  sir?  for  you  seem  perplexed;  we  have 
several  markets." 

"You  know  there  is  but  one  market  near  the  town 
dock." 

"  Oh,  the  old  market ;  but  no  such  person  has  kept  there 
these  twenty  years." 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  '69 

Here  the  stranger  seemed  disconcerted,  and  uttered  to 
himself  quite  audibly :  "  Strange  mistake ;  how  much  this 
looks  like  the  town  of  Boston  !  It  certainly  has  a  great 
resemblance  to  it ;  but  I  perceive  my  mistake  now.  Some 
other  Mrs.  Rugg,  some  other  Middle  Street. — Then,"  said 
he,  "madam,  can  you  direct  me  to  Boston?" 

"  Why,  this  is  Boston,  the  city  of  Boston ;  I  know  of  no 
other  Boston." 

"City  of  Boston  it  may  be;  but  it  is  not  the  Boston 
where  I  live.  I  recollect  now,  I  came  over  a  bridge  instead 
of  a  ferry.  Pray,  what  bridge  is  that  I  just  came  over?  " 

"  It  is  Charles  River  bridge." 

"  I  perceive  my  mistake  :  there  is  a  ferry  between  Boston 
and  Charlestown ;  there  is  no  bridge.  Ah,  I  perceive  my 
mistake.  If  I  were  in  Boston  my  horse  would  carry  me 
directly  to  my  own  door.  But  my  horse  shows  by  his  im- 
patience that  he  is  in  a  strange  place.  Absurd,  that  I 
should  have  mistaken  this  place  for  the  old  town  of  Bos- 
ton !  It  is  a  much  finer  city  than  the  town  of  Boston.  It 
has  been  built  long  since  Boston.  I  fancy  Boston  must  lie 
at  a  distance  from  this  city,  as  the  good  woman  seems 
ignorant  of  it." 

At  these  words  his  horse  began  to  chafe,  and  strike  the 
pavement  with  his  forefeet.  The  stranger  seemed  a  little 
bewildered,  and  said,  "  No  home  to-night ;  "  and  giving  the 
reins  to  his  horse,  passed  up  the  street,  and  I  saw  no  more 
of  him. 

It  was  evident  that  the  generation  to  which  Peter  Rugg 
belonged  had  passed  away. 

This  was  all  the  account  of  Peter  Rugg  I  could  obtain 
from  Mrs.  Croft ;  but  she  directed  me  to  an  elderly  man, 
Mr.  James  Felt,  who  lived  near  her,  and  who  had  kept  a 
record  of  the  principal  occurrences  for  the  last  fifty  years. 
At  my  request  she  sent  for  him ;  and  after  I  had  related  to 
him  the  object  of  my  inquiry,  Mr.  Felt  told  me  he  had 
known  Rugg  in  his  youth,  and  that  his  disappearance  had 
caused  some  surprise;  but  as  it  sometimes  happens  that 


70     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

men  run  away,  —  sometimes  to  be  rid  of  others,  and  some- 
times to  be  rid  of  themselves,  —  and  Rugg  took  his  child 
with  him,  and  his  own  horse  and  chair,  and  as  it  did  not 
appear  that  any  creditors  made  a  stir,  the  occurrence  soon 
mingled  itself  in  the  stream  of  oblivion ;  and  Rugg  and  his 
child,  horse,  and  chair  were  soon  forgotten. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Felt,  "  sundry  stories  grew  out  of 
Rugg's  affair,  whether  true  or  false  I  cannot  tell;  but 
stranger  things  have  happened  in  my  day,  without  even 
a  newspaper  notice." 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  Peter  Rugg  is  now  living.  I  have  lately 
seen  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child,  horse,  and  chair ;  therefore  I 
pray  you  to  relate  to  me  all  you  know  or  ever  heard  of  him." 

"  Why,  my  friend,"  said  James  Felt,  "  that  Peter  Rugg 
is  now  a  living  man,  I  will  not  deny ;  but  that  you  have 
seen  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child,  is  impossible,  if  you  mean 
a  small  child ;  for  Jenny  Rugg,  if  living,  must  be  at  least 
—  let  me  see  —  Boston  massacre,  1770  —  Jenny  Rugg  was 
about  ten  years  old.  Why,  sir,  Jenny  Rugg,  if  living,  must 
be  more  than  sixty  years  of  age.  That  Peter  Rugg  is  liv- 
ing, is  highly  probable,  as  he  was  only  ten  years  older  than 
myself,  and  I  was  only  eighty  last  March ;  and  I  am  as 
likely  to  live  twenty  years  longer  as  any  man." 

Here  I  perceived  that  Mr.  Felt  was  in  his  dotage,  and  I 
despaired  of  gaining  any  intelligence  from  him  on  which 
I  could  depend. 

I  took  my  leave  of  Mrs.  Croft,  and  proceeded  to  my 
lodgings  at  the  Marlborough  Hotel. 

"If  Peter  Rugg,"  thought  I,  "has  been  travelling  since 
the  Boston  massacre,  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
travel  to  the  end  of  time.  If  the  present  generation  know 
little  of  him,  the  next  will  know  less,  and  Peter  and  his 
child  will  have  no  hold  on  this  world." 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  related  my  adventure  in 
Middle  Street. 

"  Ha !  "  said  one  of  the  company,  smiling,  "  do  you  really 
think  you  have  seen  Peter  Rugg  ?  I  have  heard  my  grand- 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  71 

father  speak  of  him,  as  though  he  seriously  believed  his  own 
story." 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "pray  let  us  compare  your  grandfather's 
story  of  Mr.  Rugg  with  my  own." 

"  Peter  Rugg,  sir,  —  if  my  grandfather  was  worthy  of 
credit,  —  once  lived  in  Middle  Street,  in  this  city.  He 
was  a  man  in  comfortable  circumstances,  had  a  wife  and 
one  daughter,  and  was  generally  esteemed  for  his  sober  life 
and  manners.  But  unhappily,  his  temper,  at  times,  was 
altogether  ungovernable,  and  then  his  language  was  terri- 
ble. In  these  fits  of  passion,  if  a  door  stood  in  his  way, 
he  would  never  do  less  than  kick  a  panel  through.  He 
would  sometimes  throw  his  heels  over  his  head,  and  come 
down  on  his  feet,  uttering  oaths  in  a  circle ;  and  thus  in  a 
rage,  he  was  the  first  who  performed  a  somerset,  and  did 
what  others  have  since  learned  to  do  for  merriment  and 
money.  Once  Rugg  was  seen  to  bite  a  tenpenny  nail  in 
halves.  In  those  days  everybody,  both  men  and  boys, 
wore  wigs;  and  Peter,  at  these  moments  of  violent  pas- 
sion, would  become  so  profane  that  his  wig  would  rise  up 
from  his  head.  Some  said  it  was  on  account  of  his  terri- 
ble language  ;  others  accounted  for  it  in  a  more  philosophi- 
cal way,  and  said  it  was  caused  by  the  expansion  of  his 
scalp,  as  violent  passion,  we  know,  will  swell  the  veins  and 
expand  the  head.  While  these  fits  were  on  him,  Rugg  had 
no  respect  for  heaven  or  earth.  Except  this  infirmity,  all 
agreed  that  Rugg  was  a  good  sort  of  a  man ;  for  when  his 
fits  were  over,  nobody  was  so  ready  to  commend  a  placid 
temper  as  Peter. 

"  One  morning,  late  in  autumn,  Rugg,  in  his  own  chair, 
with  a  fine  large  bay  horse,  took  his  daughter  and  pro- 
ceeded to  Concord.  On  his  return  a  violent  storm  over- 
took him.  At  dark  he  stopped  in  Menotomy,  now  West 
Cambridge,  at  the  door  of  a  Mr.  Cutter,  a  friend  of  his, 
who  urged  him  to  tarry  the  night.  On  Rugg's  declining  to 
stop,  Mr.  Cutter  urged  him  vehemently.  '  Why,  Mr.  Rugg,' 
said  Cutter,  '  the  storm  is  overwhelming  you.  The  night  is 


72     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

exceedingly  dark.  Your  little  daughter  will  perish.  You 
are  in  an  open  chair,  and  the  tempest  is  increasing.'  'Let 
the  storm  increase?  said  Rugg,  with  a  fearful  oath,  '  /  will 
see  home  to-night,  in  spite  of  the  last  tempest,  or  may  I 
never  see  home  /'  At  these  words  he  gave  his  whip  to  his 
high-spirited  horse  and  disappeared  in  a  moment.  But 
Peter  Rugg  did  not  reach  home  that  night,  nor  the  next ; 
nor,  when  he  became  a  missing  man,  could  he  ever  be 
traced  beyond  Mr.  Cutter's,  in  Menotomy. 

"  For  a  long  time  after,  on  every  dark  and  stormy  night 
the  wife  of  Peter  Rugg  would  fancy  she  heard  the  crack  of 
a  whip,  and  the  fleet  tread  of  a  horse,  and  the  rattling  of  a 
carriage  passing  her  door.  The  neighbors,  too,  heard  the 
same  noises,  and  some  said  they  knew  it  was  Rugg's  horse ; 
the  tread  on  the  pavement  was  perfectly  familiar  to  them. 
This  occurred  so  repeatedly  that  at  length  the  neighbors 
watched  with  lanterns,  and  saw  the  real  Peter  Rugg,  with 
his  own  horse  and  chair  and  the  child  sitting  beside  him, 
pass  directly  before  his  own  door,  his  head  turned  toward 
his  house,  and  himself  making  every  effort  to  stop  his 
horse,  but  in  vain. 

"  The  next  day  the  friends  of  Mrs.  Rugg  exerted  them- 
selves to  find  her  husband  and  child.  They  inquired  at 
every  public  house  and  stable  in  town ;  but  it  did  not  ap- 
pear that  Rugg  made  any  stay  in  Boston.  No  one,  after 
Rugg  had  passed  his  own  door,  could  give  any  account  of 
him,  though  it  was  asserted  by  some  that  the  clatter  of 
Rugg's  horse  and  carriage  over  the  pavements  shook  the 
houses  on  both  sides  of  the  streets.  And  this  is  credible, 
if  indeed  Rugg's  horse  and  carriage  did  pass  on  that  night ; 
for  at  this  day,  in  many  of  the  streets,  a  loaded  truck  or 
team  in  passing  will  shake  the  houses  like  an  earthquake. 
However,  Rugg's  neighbors  never  afterward  watched. 
Some  of  them  treated  it  all  as  a  delusion,  and  thought  no 
more  of  it.  Others  of  a  different  opinion  shook  their  heads 
and  said  nothing. 

"  Thus  Rugg  and  his  child,  horse,  and  chair  were  soon 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  73 

forgotten ;  and  probably  many  in  the  neighborhood  never 
heard  a  word  on  the  subject. 

"There  was  indeed  a  rumor  that  Rugg  was  seen  after- 
ward in  Connecticut,  between  Suffield  and  Hartford,  pass- 
ing through  the  country  at  headlong  speed.  This  gave 
occasion  to  Rugg's  friends  to  make  further  inquiry ;  but 
the  more  they  inquired,  the  more  they  were  baffled.  If 
they  heard  of  Rugg  one  day  in  Connecticut,  the  next  they 
heard  of  him  winding  round  the  hills  in  New  Hampshire ; 
and  soon  after  a  man  in  a  chair,  with  a  small  child,  exactly 
answering  the  description  of  Peter  Rugg,  would  be  seen  in 
Rhode  Island  inquiring  the  way  to  Boston. 

"  But  that  which  chiefly  gave  a  color  of  mystery  to  the 
story  of  Peter  Rugg  was  the  affair  at  Charleston  bridge. 
The  toll-gatherer  asserted  that  sometimes,  on  the  darkest 
and  most  stormy  nights,  when  no  object  could  be  dis- 
cerned, about  the  time  Rugg  was  missing,  a  horse  and 
wheel-carriage,  with  a  noise  equal  to  a  troop,  would  at 
midnight,  in  utter  contempt  of  the  rates  of  toll,  pass  over 
the  bridge.  This  occurred  so  frequently  that  the  toll- 
gatherer  resolved  to  attempt  a  discovery.  Soon  after,  at 
the  usual  time,  apparently  the  same  horse  and  carriage 
approached  the  bridge  from  Charlestown  square.  The  toll- 
gatherer,  prepared,  took  his  stand  as  near  the  middle  of 
the  bridge  as  he  dared,  with  a  large  three-legged  stool 
in  his  hand ;  as  the  appearance  passed,  he  threw  the  stool 
at  the  horse,  but  heard  nothing  except  the  noise  of  the 
stool  skipping  across  the  bridge.  The  toll-gatherer  on 
the  next  day  asserted  that  the  stool  went  directly  through 
the  body  of  the  horse,  and  he  persisted  in  that  belief  ever 
after.  Whether  Rugg,  or  whoever  the  person  was,  ever 
passed  the  bridge  again,  the  toll-gatherer  would  never  tell ; 
and  when  questioned,  seemed  anxious  to  waive  the  subject. 
And  thus  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child,  horse,  and  carriage, 
remain  a  mystery  to  this  day." 

This,  sir,  is  all  that  I  could  learn  of  Peter  Rugg  in 
Boston. 


74     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

FURTHER  ACCOUNT  OF  PETER  RUGG 

BY  JONATHAN   DUNWELL 

IN  the  autumn  of  1825  I  attended  the  races  at  Richmond 
in  Virginia.  As  two  new  horses  of  great  promise  were  run, 
the  race-ground  was  never  better  attended,  nor  was  expec- 
tation ever  more  deeply  excited.  The  partisans  of  Dart 
and  Lightning,  the  two  race-horses,  were  equally  anxious 
and  equally  dubious  of  the  result.  To  an  indifferent  spec- 
tator, it  was  impossible  to  perceive  any  difference.  They 
were  equally  beautiful  to  behold,  alike  in  color  and  height, 
and  as  they  stood  side  by  side  they  measured  from  heel  to 
forefeet  within  half  an  inch  of  each  other.  The  eyes  of 
each  were  full,  prominent,  and  resolute ;  and  when  at 
times  they  regarded  each  other,  they  assumed  a  lofty 
demeanor,  seemed  to  shorten  their  necks,  project  their 
eyes,  and  rest  their  bodies  equally  on  their  four  hoofs. 
They  certainly  showed  signs  of  intelligence,  and  displayed 
a  courtesy  to  each  other  unusual  even  with  statesmen. 

It  was  now  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  the  hour  of  expecta- 
tion, doubt,  and  anxiety.  The  riders  mounted  their  horses ; 
and  so  trim,  light,  and  airy  they  sat  on  the  animals  as 
to  seem  a  part  of  them.  The  spectators,  many  deep  in 
a  solid  column,  had  taken  their  places,  and  as  many 
thousand  breathing  statues  were  there  as  spectators.  All 
eyes  were  turned  to  Dart  and  Lightning  and  their  two  fairy 
riders.  There  was  nothing  to  disturb  this  calm  except 
a  busy  woodpecker  on  a  neighboring  tree.  The  signal 
was  given,  and  Dart  and  Lightning  answered  it  with  ready 
intelligence.  At  first  they  proceed  at  a  slow  trot,  then 
they  quicken  to  a  canter,  and  then  a  gallop ;  presently 
they  sweep  the  plain.  Both  horses  lay  themselves  flat  on 
the  ground,  their  riders  bending  forward  and  resting  their 
chins  between  their  horses'  ears.  Had  not  the  ground 
been  perfectly  level,  had  there  been  any  undulation,  the 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  75 

least  rise  and  fall,  the  spectator  would  now  and  then  have 
lost  sight  of  both  horses  and  riders. 

While  these  horses,  side  by  side,  thus  appeared,  flying 
without  wings,  flat  as  a  hare,  and  neither  gaming  on  the 
other,  all  eyes  were  diverted  to  a  new  spectacle.  Directly 
in  the  rear  of  Dart  and  Lightning,  a  majestic  black  horse 
of  unusual  size,  drawing  an  old  weather-beaten  chair,  strode 
over  the  plain;  and  although  he  appeared  to  make  no 
effort,  for  he  maintained  a  steady  trot,  before  Dart  and 
Lightning  approached  the  goal  the  black  horse  and  chair 
had  overtaken  the  racers,  who,  on  perceiving  this  new 
competitor  pass  them,  threw  back  their  ears,  and  suddenly 
stopped  in  their  course.  Thus  neither  Dart  nor  Lightning 
carried  away  the  purse. 

The  spectators  now  were  exceedingly  curious  to  learn 
whence  came  the  black  horse  and  chair.  With  many  it 
was  the  opinion  that  nobody  was  in  the  vehicle.  Indeed, 
this  began  to  be  the  prevalent  opinion ;  for  those  at  a  short 
distance,  so  fleet  was  the  black  horse,  could  not  easily  dis- 
cern who,  if  anybody,  was  in  the  carriage.  But  both  the 
riders,  very  near  to  whom  the  black  horse  passed,  agreed 
in  this  particular,  —  that  a  sad-looking  man  and  a  little 
girl  were  in  the  chair.  When  they  stated  this  I  was  satis- 
fied that  the  man  was  Peter  Rugg.  But  what  caused  no 
little  surprise,  John  Spring,  one  of  the  riders  (he  who  rode 
Lightning)  asserted  that  no  earthly  horse  without  breaking 
his  trot  could,  in  a  carriage,  outstrip  his  race-horse ;  and 
he  persisted,  with  some  passion,  that  it  was  not  a  horse,  — 
or,  he  was  sure  it  was  not  a  horse,  but  a  large  black  ox. 
"  What  a  great  black  ox  can  do,"  said  John,  "  I  cannot 
pretend  to  say ;  but  no  race-horse,  not  even  flying  Childers, 
could  out-trot  Lightning  in  a  fair  race." 

This  opinion  of  John  Spring  excited  no  little  merriment, 
for  it  was  obvious  to  every  one  that  it  was  a  powerful  black 
horse  that  interrupted  the  race ;  but  John  Spring,  jealous 
of  Lightning's  reputation  as  a  horse,  would  rather  have  it 
thought  that  any  other  beast,  even  an  ox,  had  been  the 


76      AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

victor.  However,  the  "  horse-laugh  "  at  John  Spring's  ex- 
pense was  soon  suppressed ;  for  as  soon  as  Dart  and  Light- 
ning began  to  breathe  more  freely,  it  was  observed  that 
both  of  them  walked  deliberately  to  the  track  of  the  race- 
ground,  and  putting  their  heads  to  the  earth,  suddenly 
raised  them  again  and  began  to  snort.  They  repeated  this 
till  John  Spring  said,  — "  These  horses  have  discovered 
something  strange  ;  they  suspect  foul  play.  Let  me  go 
and  talk  with  Lightning." 

He  went  up  to  Lightning  and  took  hold  of  his  mane ; 
and  Lightning  put  his  nose  toward  the  ground  and  smelt  of 
the  earth  without  touching  it,  then  reared  his  head  very 
high,  and  snorted  so  loudly  that  the  sound  echoed  from 
the  next  hill.  Dart  did  the  same.  John  Spring  stooped 
down  to  examine  the  spot  where  Lightning  had  smelled. 
In  a  moment  he  raised  himself  up,  and  the  countenance  of 
the  man  was  changed.  His  strength  failed  him,  and  he 
sidled  against  Lightning. 

At  length  John  Spring  recovered  from  his  stupor  and 
exclaimed,  "  It  was  an  ox  !  I  told  you  it  was  an  ox.  No 
real  horse  ever  yet  beat  Lightning." 

And  now,  on  a  close  inspection  of  the  black  horse's  tracks 
in  the  path,  it  was  evident  to  every  one  that  the  forefeet 
of  the  black  horse  were  cloven.  Notwithstanding  these 
appearances,  to  me  it  was  evident  that  the  strange  horse 
was  in  reality  a  horse.  Yet  when  the  people  left  the  race- 
ground,  I  presume  one  half  of  all  those  present  would  have 
testified  that  a  large  black  ox  had  distanced  two  of  the 
fleetest  coursers  that  ever  trod  the  Virginia  turf.  So 
uncertain  are  all  things  called  historical  facts. 

While  I  was  proceeding  to  my  lodgings,  pondering  on 
the  events  of  the  day,  a  stranger  rode  up  to  me,  and  ac- 
costed me  thus,  —  "I  think  your  name  is  Dunwell,  sir." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  Did  I  not  see  you  a  year  or  two  since  in  Boston,  at  the 
Marlborough  Hotel?" 

"  Very  likely,  sir,  for  I  was  there." 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  77 

"And  you  heard  a  story  about  one  Peter  Rugg?" 

"  I  recollect  it  all,"  said  I. 

"The  account  you  heard  in  Boston  must  be  true,  for 
here  he  was  to-day.  The  man  has  found  his  way  to  Vir- 
ginia, and  for  aught  that  appears,  has  been  to  Cape  Horn. 
I  have  seen  him  before  to-day,  but  never  saw  him  travel 
with  such  fearful  velocity.  Pray,  sir,  where  does  Peter 
Rugg  spend  his  winters,  for  I  have  seen  him  only  in  sum- 
mer, and  always  in  foul  weather,  except  this  time?" 

I  replied,  "  No  one  knows  where  Peter  Rugg  spends  his 
winters;  where  or  when  he  eats,  drinks,  sleeps,  or  lodges. 
He  seems  to  have  an  indistinct  idea  of  day  and  night,  time 
and  space,  storm  and  sunshine.  His  only  object  is  Boston. 
It  appears  to  me  that  Rugg's  horse  has  some  control  of  the 
chair;  and  that  Rugg  himself  is,  in  some  sort,  under  the 
control  of  his  horse." 

I  then  inquired  of  the  stranger  where  he  first  saw  the 
man  and  horse. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  he,  "in  the  summer  of  1824,  I  travelled 
to  the  North  for  my  health ;  and  soon  after  I  saw  you  at 
the  Marlborough  Hotel  I  returned  homeward  to  Virginia, 
and,  if  my  memory  is  correct,  I  saw  this  man  and  horse  in 
every  State  between  here  and  Massachusetts.  Sometimes 
he  would  meet  me,  but  oftener  overtake  me.  He  never 
spoke  but  once,  and  that  once  was  in  Delaware.  On  his 
approach  he  checked  his  horse  with  some  difficulty.  A 
more  beautiful  horse  I  never  saw ;  his  hide  was  as  fair  and 
rotund  and  glossy  as  the  skin  of  a  Congo  beauty.  When 
Rugg's  horse  approached  mine  he  reined  in  his  neck,  bent 
his  ears  forward  until  they  met,  and  looked  my  horse  full 
in  the  face.  My  horse  immediately  withered  into  half  a 
horse,  his  hide  curling  up  like  a  piece  of  burnt  leather; 
spell-bound,  he  was  fixed  to  the  earth  as  though  a  nail  had 
been  driven  through  each  hoof. 

" '  Sir,'  said  Rugg, '  perhaps  you  are  travelling  to  Boston ; 
and  if  so,  I  should  be  happy  to  accompany  you,  for  I  have 
lost  my  way,  and  I  must  reach  home  to-night.  See  how 


78      AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

sleepy  this  little  girl  looks ;  poor  thing,  she  is  a  picture  of 
patience.' 

" '  Sir,'  said  I,  '  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  reach  home 
to-night,  for  you  are  in  Concord,  in  the  county  of  Sussex, 
in  the  State  of  Delaware.' 

" '  What  do  you  mean,'  said  he,  '  by  State  of  Delaware  ? 
If  I  were  in  Concord,  that  is  only  twenty  miles,  from  Bos- 
ton, and  my  horse  Lightfoot  could  carry  me  to  Charlestown 
ferry  in  less  than  two  hours.  You  mistake,  sir ;  you  are  a 
stranger  here ;  this  town  is  nothing  like  Concord.  I  am 
well  acquainted  with  Concord.  I  went  to  Concord  when  I 
left  Boston.' 

"But,'  said  I,  'you  are  in  Concord,  in  the  State  of 
Delaware.' 

" « What  do  you  mean  by  State  ? '  said  Rugg. 

"'Why,  one  of  the  United  States.' 

" '  States ! '  said  he,  in  a  low  voice ;  '  the  man  is  a  wag, 
and  would  persuade  me  I  am  in  Holland.'  Then,  raising 
his  voice,  he  said,  '  You  seem,  sir,  to  be  a  gentleman,  and 
I  entreat  you  to  mislead  me  not :  tell  me,  quickly,  for 
pity's  sake,  the  right  road  to  Boston,  for  you  see  my  horse 
will  swallow  his  bits ;  he  has  eaten  nothing  since  I  left 
Concord.' 

"  <  Sir,'  said  I, '  this  town  is  Concord,  —  Concord  in  Dela- 
ware, not  Concord  in  Massachusetts ;  and  you  are  now  five 
hundred  miles  from  Boston.' 

"  Rugg  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  more  in  sorrow  than 
resentment,  and  then  repeated,  '  Five  hundred  miles  !  Un- 
happy man,  who  would  have  thought  him  deranged ;  but 
nothing  in  this  world  is  so  deceitful  as  appearances.  Five 
hundred  miles  !  This  beats  Connecticut  River.' 

"  What  he  meant  by  Connecticut  River,  I  know  not ;  his 
horse  broke  away,  and  Rugg  disappeared  in  a  moment." 

I  explained  to  the  stranger  the  meaning  of  Rugg's  ex- 
pression, "  Connecticut  River,"  and  the  incident  respecting 
him  that  occurred  at  Hartford,  as  I  stood  on  the  door- 
stone  of  Mr.  Bennett's  excellent  hotel.  We  both  agreed 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  79 

that  the  man  we  had  seen  that  day  was  the  true  Peter 
Rugg. 

Soon  after,  I  saw  Rugg  again,  at  the  toll-gate  on  the 
turnpike  between  Alexandria  and  Middleburgh.  While  I 
was  paying  the  toll,  I  observed  to  the  toll-gatherer  that 
the  drought  was  more  severe  in  his  vicinity  than  farther 
south. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  the  drought  is  excessive ;  but  if  I  had 
not  heard  yesterday,  by  a  traveller,  that  the  man  with  the 
black  horse  was  seen  in  Kentucky  a  day  or  two  since,  I 
should  be  sure  of  a  shower  in  a  few  minutes." 

I  looked  all  around  the  horizon,  and  could  not  discern 
a  cloud  that  could  hold  a  pint  of  water. 

"  Look,  sir,"  said  the  toll-gatherer,  "  you  perceive  to  the 
eastward,  just  above  that  hill,  a  small  black  cloud  not 
bigger  than  a  blackberry,  and  while  I  am  speaking  it  is 
doubling  and  trebling  itself,  and  rolling  up  the  turnpike 
steadily,  as  if  its  sole  design  was  to  deluge  some  object." 

"  True,"  said  I,  "  I  do  perceive  it ;  but  what  connection 
is  there  between  a  thunder-cloud  and  a  man  and  horse?" 

"  More  than  you  imagine,  or  I  can  tell  you ;  but  stop  a 
moment,  sir,  I  may  need  your  assistance.  I  know  that 
cloud ;  I  have  seen  it  several  times  before,  and  can  testify 
to  its  identity.  You  will  soon  see  a  man  and  black  horse 
under  it." 

While  he  was  speaking,  true  enough,  we  began  to  hear 
the  distant  thunder,  and  soon  the  chain-lightning  per- 
formed all  the  figures  of  a  country-dance.  About  a  mile 
distant  we  saw  the  man  and  black  horse  under  the  cloud ; 
but  before  he  arrived  at  the  toll-gate,  the  thunder-cloud  had 
spent  itself,  and  not  even  a  sprinkle  fell  near  us. 

As  the  man,  whom  I  instantly  knew  to  be  Rugg,  at- 
tempted to  pass,  the  toll-gatherer  swung  the  gate  across 
the  road,  seized  Rugg's  horse  by  the  reins,  and  demanded 
two  dollars. 

Feeling  some  little  regard  for  Rugg,  I  interfered,  and 
began  to  question  the  toll-gatherer,  and  requested  him  not 


8o     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

to  be  wroth  with  the  man.  The  toll-gatherer  replied  that 
he  had  just  cause,  for  the  man  had  run  his  toll  ten  times, 
and  moreover  that  the  horse  had  discharged  a  cannon-ball 
at  him,  to  the  great  danger  of  his  life ;  that  the  man  had 
always  before  approached  so  rapidly  that  he  was  too  quick 
for  the  rusty  hinges  of  the  toll-gate ;  "  but  now  I  will  have 
full  satisfaction." 

Rugg  looked  wistfully  at  me,  and  said,  "  I  entreat  you, 
sir,  to  delay  me  not ;  I  have  found  at  length  the  direct 
road  to  Boston,  and  shall  not  reach  home  before  night  if 
you  detain  me.  You  see  I  am  dripping  wet,  and  ought 
to  change  my  clothes." 

The  toll-gatherer  then  demanded  why  he  had  run  his 
toll  so  many  times. 

"Toll !  Why,"  said  Rugg,  "  do  you  demand  toll?  There 
is  no  toll  to  pay  on  the  king's  highway." 

"  King's  highway !  Do  you  not  perceive  this  is  a 
turnpike  ?  " 

"  Turnpike  !  there  are  no  turnpikes  in  Massachusetts." 

"  That  may  be,  but  we  have  several  in  Virginia." 

"  Virginia  !     Do  you  pretend  I  am  in  Virginia?  " 

Rugg  then,  appealing  to  me,  asked  how  far  it  was  to 
Boston. 

Said  I,  "  Mr.  Rugg,  I  perceive  you  are  bewildered,  and 
am  sorry  to  see  you  so  far  from  home ;  you  are,  indeed, 
in  Virginia." 

"  You  know  me,  then,  sir,  it  seems ;  and  you  say  I  am 
in  Virginia.  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  sir,  you  are  the 
most  impudent  man  alive;  for  I  was  never  forty  miles 
from  Boston,  and  I  never  saw  a  Virginian  in  my  life. 
This  beats  Delaware  !  " 

"  Your  toll,  sir,  your  toll !  " 

"  I  will  not  pay  you  a  penny,"  said  Rugg ;  "  you  are  both 
of  you  highway  robbers.  There  are  no  turnpikes  in  this 
country.  Take  toll  on  the  king's  highway  !  Robbers  take 
toll  on  the  king's  highway  !  "  Then  in  a  low  tone,  he  said, 
"  Here  is  evidently  a  conspiracy  against  me ;  alas,  I  shall 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  81 

never  see  Boston  !  The  highways  refuse  me  a  passage,  the 
rivers  change  their  courses,  and  there  is  no  faith  in  the 
compass." 

But  Rugg's  horse  had  no  idea  of  stopping  more  than  one 
minute;  for  in  the  midst  of  this  altercation,  the  horse, 
whose  nose  was  resting  on  the  upper  bar  of  the  turnpike- 
gate,  seized  it  between  his  teeth,  lifted  it  gently  off  its 
staples,  and  trotted  off  with  it.  The  toll-gatherer,  con- 
founded, strained  his  eyes  after  his  gate. 

"  Let  him  go,"  said  I,  "  the  horse  will  soon  drop  your 
gate,  and  you  will  get  it  again." 

I  then  questioned  the  toll-gatherer  respecting  his 
knowledge  of  this  man;  and  he  related  the  following 
particulars  : — 

"  The  first  time,"  said  he,  "  that  man  ever  passed  this 
toll-gate  was  in  the  year  1806,  at  the  moment  of  the  great 
eclipse.  I  thought  the  horse  was  frightened  at  the  sudden 
darkness,  and  concluded  he  had  run  away  with  the  man. 
But  within  a  few  days  after,  the  same  man  and  horse 
repassed  with  equal  speed,  without  the  least  respect  to  the 
toll-gate  or  to  me,  except  by  a  vacant  stare.  Some  few 
years  afterward,  during  the  late  war,  I  saw  the  same  man 
approaching  again,  and  I  resolved  to  check  his  career. 
Accordingly  I  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
stretched  wide  both  my  arms,  and  cried,  '  Stop,  sir,  on  your 
peril ! '  At  this  the  man  said,  '  Now,  Lightfoot,  confound 
the  robber  ! '  at  the  same  time  he  gave  the  whip  liberally 
to  the  flank  of  his  horse,  which  bounded  off  with  such  force 
that  it  appeared  to  me  two  such  horses,  give  them  a  place 
to  stand,  would  overcome  any  check  man  could  devise. 
An  ammunition  wagon  which  had  just  passed  on  to  Bal- 
timore had  dropped  an  eighteen  pounder  in  the  road; 
this  unlucky  ball  lay  in  the  way  of  the  horse's  heels,  and 
the  beast,  with  the  sagacity  of  a  demon,  clinched  it  with 
one  of  his  heels  and  hurled  it  behind  him.  I  feel  dizzy 
in  relating  the  fact,  but  so  nearly  did  the  ball  pass  my 
head,  that  the  wind  thereof  blew  off  my  hat ;  and  the  ball 
6 


82     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

embedded  itself  in  that  gate-post,  as  you  may  see  if  you 
will  cast  your  eye  on  the  post.  I  have  permitted  it  to  re- 
main there  in  memory  of  the  occurrence,  —  as  the  people 
of  Boston,  I  am  told,  preserve  the  eighteen-pounder  which 
is  now  to  be  seen  half  imbedded  in  Brattle  Street  church." 

I  then  took  leave  of  the  toll-gatherer,  and  promised  him 
if  I  saw  or  heard  of  his  gate  I  would  send  him  notice. 

A  strong  inclination  had  possessed  me  to  arrest  Rugg 
and  search  his  pockets,  thinking  great  discoveries  might  be 
made  in  the  examination ;  but  what  I  saw  and  heard  that 
day  convinced  me  that  no  human  force  could  detain  Peter 
Rugg  against  his  consent.  I  therefore  determined  if  I 
ever  saw  Rugg  again  to  treat  him  in  the  gentlest  manner. 

In  pursuing  my  way  to  New  York,  I  entered  on  the 
turnpike  in  Trenton ;  and  when  I  arrived  at  New  Bruns- 
wick, I  perceived  the  road  was  newly  macadamized.  The 
small  stones  had  just  been  laid  thereon.  As  I  passed  this 
piece  of  road,  I  observed  that,  at  regular  distances  of  about 
eight  feet,  the  stones  were  entirely  displaced  from  spots 
as  large  as  the  circumference  of  a  half-bushel  measure. 
This  singular  appearance  induced  me  to  inquire  the  cause 
of  it  at  the  turnpike-gate. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  toll-gatherer,  "  I  wonder  not  at  the  ques- 
tion, but  I  am  unable  to  give  you  a  satisfactory  answer. 
Indeed,  sir,  I  believe  I  am  bewitched,  and  that  the  turn- 
pike is  under  a  spell  of  enchantment ;  for  what  appeared 
to  me  last  night  cannot  be  a  real  transaction,  otherwise  a 
turnpike-gate  is  a  useless  thing." 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  witchcraft  or  enchantment,"  said  I ; 
"  and  if  you  will  relate  circumstantially  what  happened  last 
night,  I  will  endeavor  to  account  for  it  by  natural  means." 

"You  may  recollect  the  night  was  uncommonly  dark. 
Well,  sir,  just  after  I  had  closed  the  gate  for  the  night, 
down  the  turnpike,  as  far  as  my  eye  could  reach,  I  beheld 
what  at  first  appeared  to  be  two  armies  engaged.  The 
report  of  the  musketry,  and  the  flashes  of  their  firelocks, 
were  incessant  and  continuous.  As  this  strange  spectacle 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  83 

approached  me  with  the  fury  of  a  tornado,  the  noise  in- 
creased ;  and  the  appearance  rolled  on  in  one  compact  body 
over  the  surface  of  the  ground.  The  most  splendid  fire- 
works rose  out  of  the  earth  and  encircled  this  moving 
spectacle.  The  divers  tints  of  the  rainbow,  the  most  bril- 
liant dyes  that  the  sun  lays  in  the  lap  of  spring,  added  to 
the  whole  family  of  gems,  could  not  display  a  more  beau- 
tiful, radiant,  and  dazzling  spectacle  than  accompanied  the 
black  horse.  You  would  have  thought  all  the  stars  of 
heaven  had  met  in  merriment  on  the  turnpike.  In  the 
midst  of  this  luminous  configuration  sat  a  man,  distinctly 
to  be  seen,  in  a  miserable-looking  chair,  drawn  by  a  black 
horse.  The  turnpike-gate  ought,  by  the  laws  of  Nature 
and  the  laws  of  the  State,  to  have  made  a  wreck  of  the 
whole,  and  have  dissolved  the  enchantment;  but  no,  the 
horse  without  an  effort  passed  over  the  gate,  and  drew 
the  man  and  chair  horizontally  after  him  without  touching 
the  bar.  This  was  what  I  call  enchantment.  What  think 
you,  sir  ?  " 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  "  you  have  grossly  magnified  a  nat- 
ural occurrence.  The  man  was  Peter  Rugg,  on  his  way 
to  Boston.  It  is  true,  his  horse  travelled  with  unequalled 
speed,  but  as  he  reared  high  his  forefeet,  he  could  not 
help  displacing  the  thousand  small  stones  on  which  he 
trod,  which  flying  in  all  directions  struck  one  another, 
and  resounded  and  scintillated.  The  top  bar  of  your  gate 
is  not  more  than  two  feet  from  the  ground,  and  Rugg's 
horse  at  every  vault  could  easily  lift  the  carriage  over  that 
gate." 

This  satisfied  Mr.  McDoubt,  and  I  was  pleased  at  that 
occurrence ;  for  otherwise  Mr.  McDoubt,  who  is  a  worthy 
man,  late  from  the  Highlands,  might  have  added  to  his 
calendar  of  superstitions.  Having  thus  disenchanted  the 
macadamized  road  and  the  turnpike-gate,  and  also  Mr. 
McDoubt,  I  pursued  my  journey  homeward  to  New  York. 

Little  did  I  expect  to  see  or  hear  anything  further  of  Mr. 
Rugg,  for  he  was  now  more  than  twelve  hours  in  advance 


84     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

of  me.  I  could  hear  nothing  of  him  on  my  way  to  Eliza- 
bethtown,  and  therefore  concluded  that  during  the  pasl 
night  he  had  turned  off  from  the  turnpike  and  pursued  z 
westerly  direction;  but  just  before  I  arrived  at  Powles's 
Hook,  I  observed  a  considerable  collection  of  passengers  ir 
the  ferry-boat,  all  standing  motionless,  and  steadily  looking 
at  the  same  object.  One  of  the  ferry-men,  Mr.  Hardy,  whc 
knew  me  well,  observing  my  approach  delayed  a  minute,  ir 
order  to  afford  me  a  passage,  and  coming  up,  said,  "  Mr, 
Dunwell,  we  have  a  curiosity  on  board  that  would  puzzle 
Dr.  Mitchell." 

"Some  strange  fish,  I  suppose,  has  found  its  way  intc 
the  Hudson." 

"No,"  said  he,  "it  is  a  man  who  looks  as  if  he  had  lain 
hidden  in  the  ark,  and  had  just  now  ventured  out.  He  has 
a  little  girl  with  him,  the  counterpart  of  himself,  and  the 
finest  horse  you  ever  saw,  harnessed  to  the  queerest-looking 
carriage  that  ever  was  made." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Hardy,"  said  I,  "you  have,  indeed,  hooked  a 
prize ;  no  one  before  you  could  ever  detain  Peter  Rugg 
long  enough  to  examine  him." 

"  Do  you  know  the  man  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hardy. 

"  No,  nobody  knows  him,  but  everybody  has  seen  him. 
Detain  him  as  long  as  possible ;  delay  the  boat  under  any 
pretence,  cut  the  gear  of  the  horse,  do  anything  to  detain 
him." 

As  I  entered  the  ferry-boat,  I  was  struck  at  the  spectacle 
before  me.  There,  indeed,  sat  Peter  Rugg  and  Jenny  Rugg 
in  the  chair,  and  there  stood  the  black  horse,  all  as  quiet 
as  lambs,  surrounded  by  more  than  fifty  men  and  women, 
who  seemed  to  have  lost  all  their  senses  but  one.  Not  a 
motion,  not  a  breath,  not  a  rustle.  They  were  all  eye. 
Rugg  appeared  to  them  to  be  a  man  not  of  this  world; 
and  they  appeared  to  Rugg  a  strange  generation  of  men. 
Rugg  spoke  not,  and  they  spoke  not ;  nor  was  I  disposed 
to  disturb  the  calm,  satisfied  to  reconnoitre  Rugg  in  a  state 
of  rest.  Presently,  Rugg  observed  in  a  low  voice,  addressed 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  85 

to  nobody,  "A  new  contrivance,  horses  instead  of  oars; 
Boston  folks  are  full  of  notions." 

It  was  plain  that  Rugg  was  of  Dutch  extraction.  He  had 
on  three  pairs  of  small  clothes,  called  in  former  days  of 
simplicity  breeches,  not  much  the  worse  for  wear;  but 
time  had  proved  the  fabric,  and  shrunk  one  more  than 
another,  so  that  they  showed  at  the  knees  their  different 
qualities  and  colors.  His  several  waistcoats,  the  flaps  of 
which  rested  on  his  knees,  made  him  appear  rather  corpu- 
lent. His  capacious  drab  coat  would  supply  the  stuff  for 
half  a  dozen  modern  ones ;  the  sleeves  were  like  meal  bags, 
in  the  cuffs  of  which  you  might  nurse  a  child  to  sleep.  His 
hat,  probably  once  black,  now  of  a  tan  color,  was  neither 
round  nor  crooked,  but  in  shape  much  like  the  one  Presi- 
dent Monroe  wore  on  his  late  tour.  This  dress  gave  the 
rotund  face  of  Rugg  an  antiquated  dignity.  The  man, 
though  deeply  sunburned,  did  not  appear  to  be  more  than 
thirty  years  of  age.  He  had  lost  his  sad  and  anxious  look, 
was  quite  composed,  and  seemed  happy.  The  chair  in 
which  Rugg  sat  was  very  capacious,  evidently  made  for 
service,  and  calculated  to  last  for  ages ;  the  timber  would 
supply  material  for  three  modern  carriages.  This  chair, 
like  a  Nantucket  coach,  would  answer  for  everything  that 
ever  went  on  wheels.  The  horse,  too,  was  an  object  of 
curiosity;  his  majestic  height,  his  natural  mane  and  tail, 
gave  him  a  commanding  appearance,  and  his  large  open  nos- 
trils indicated  inexhaustible  wind.  It  was  apparent  that  the 
hoofs  of  his  forefeet  had  been  split,  probably  on  some  newly 
macadamized  road,  and  were  now  growing  together  again ; 
so  that  John  Spring  was  not  altogether  in  the  wrong. 

How  long  this  dumb  scene  would  otherwise  have  contin- 
ued I  cannot  tell.  Rugg  discovered  no  sign  of  impatience. 
But  Rugg's  horse  having  been  quiet  more  than  five  minutes, 
had  no  idea  of  standing  idle ;  he  began  to  whinny,  and  in 
a  moment  after,  with  his  right  forefoot  he  started  a  plank. 
Said  Rugg,  "My  horse  is  impatient,  he  sees  the  North 
End.  You  must  be  quick,  or  he  will  be  ungovernable." 


86     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

At  these  words,  the  horse  raised  his  left  forefoot;  and 
when  he  laid  it  down  every  inch  of  the  ferry-boat  trembled. 
Two  men  immediately  seized  Rugg's  horse  by  the  nostrils. 
The  horse  nodded,  and  both  of  them  were  in  the  Hudson. 
While  we  were  fishing  up  the  men,  the  horse  was  perfectly 
quiet. 

"  Fret  not  the  horse,"  said  Rugg,  "  and  he  will  do  no 
harm.  He  is  only  anxious,  like  myself,  to  arrive  at  yonder 
beautiful  shore ;  he  sees  the  North  Church,  and  smells  his 
own  stable." 

"  Sir,"  said  I  to  Rugg,  practising  a  little  deception,  "  pray 
tell  me,  for  I  am  a  stranger  here,  what  river  is  this,  and 
what  city  is  that  opposite,  for  you  seem  to  be  an  inhabitant 
of  it?" 

"This  river,  sir,  is  called  Mystic  River,  and  this  is  Win- 
nisimmet  ferry,  —  we  have  retained  the  Indian  names, — 
and  that  town  is  Boston.  You  must,  indeed,  be  a  stranger 
in  these  parts,  not  to  know  that  yonder  is  Boston,  the 
capital  of  the  New  England  provinces." 

"Pray,  sir,  how  long  have  you  been  absent  from 
Boston?" 

"Why,  that  I  cannot  exactly  tell.  I  lately  went  with 
this  little  girl  of  mine  to  Concord,  to  see  my  friends ;  and  I 
am  ashamed  to  tell  you,  in  returning  lost  the  way,  and  have 
been  travelling  ever  since.  No  one  would  direct  me  right. 
It  is  cruel  to  mislead  a  traveller.  My  horse,  Lightfoot,  has 
boxed  the  compass ;  and  it  seems  to  me  he  has  boxed  it 
back  again.  But,  sir,  you  perceive  my  horse  is  uneasy; 
Lightfoot,  as  yet,  has  only  given  a  hint  and  a  nod.  I 
cannot  be  answerable  for  his  heels." 

At  these  words  Lightfoot  reared  his  long  tail,  and 
snapped  it  as  you  would  a  whiplash.  The  Hudson  re- 
verberated with  the  sound.  Instantly  the  six  horses  began 
to  move  the  boat.  The  Hudson  was  a  sea  of  glass,  smooth 
as  oil,  not  a  ripple.  The  horses,  from  a  smart  trot,  soon 
pressed  into  a  gallop ;  water  now  ran  over  the  gunwale ; 
the  ferry-boat  was  soon  buried  in  an  ocean  of  foam,  and 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  87 

the  noise  of  the  spray  was  like  the  roaring  of  many  waters. 
When  we  arrived  at  New  York,  you  might  see  the  beautiful 
white  wake  of  the  ferry-boat  across  the  Hudson. 

Though  Rugg  refused  to  pay  toll  at  turnpikes,  when  Mr. 
Hardy  reached  his  hand  for  the  ferriage,  Rugg  readily  put 
his  hand  into  one  of  his  many  pockets,  took  out  a  piece  of 
silver,  and  handed  it  to  Hardy. 

"  What  is  this?  "  said  Mr.  Hardy. 

"  It  is  thirty  shillings,"  said  Rugg. 

"  It  might  once  have  been  thirty  shillings,  old  tenor," 
said  Mr.  Hardy,  "  but  it  is  not  at  present." 

"The  money  is  good  English  coin,"  said  Rugg;  "my 
grandfather  brought  a  bag  of  them  from  England,  and  had 
them  hot  from  the  mint." 

Hearing  this,  I  approached  near  to  Rugg,  and  asked 
permission  to  see  the  coin.  It  was  a  half-crown,  coined 
by  the  English  Parliament,  dated  in  the  year  1649.  On 
one  side,  "The  Commonwealth  of  England,"  and  St. 
George's  cross  encircled  with  a  wreath  of  laurel.  On  the 
other,  "  God  with  us,"  and  a  harp  and  St.  George's  cross 
united.  I  winked  at  Mr.  Hardy,  and  pronounced  it  good 
current  money ;  and  said  loudly,  "  I  will  not  permit  the 
gentleman  to  be  imposed  on,  for  I  will  exchange  the 
money  myself." 

On  this,  Rugg  spoke,  —  "  Please  to  give  me  your  name,  sir." 

"  My  name  is  Dunwell,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  Mr.  Dunwell,"  said  Rugg,  "  you  are  the  only  honest 
man  I  have  seen  since  I  left  Boston.  As  you  are  a  stranger 
here,  my  house  is  your  home ;  Dame  Rugg  will  be  happy 
to  see  her  husband's  friend.  Step  into  my  chair,  sir,  there 
is  room  enough;  move  a  little,  Jenny,  for  the  gentleman, 
and  we  will  be  in  Middle  Street  in  a  minute." 

Accordingly  I  took  a  seat  by  Peter  Rugg. 

"  Were  you  never  in  Boston  before  ?  "  said  Rugg. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  you  will  now  see  the  queen  of  New  England,  a 
town  second  only  to  Philadelphia,  in  all  North  America." 


88      AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  You  forget  New  York,"  said  I. 

"  Poh,  New  York  is  nothing ;  though  I  never  was  there. 
I  am  told  you  might  put  all  New  York  in  our  mill-pond. 
No,  sir,  New  York,  I  assure  you,  is  but  a  sorry  affair ;  no 
more  to  be  compared  with  Boston  than  a  wigwam  with 
a  palace." 

As  Rugg's  horse  turned  into  Pearl  Street,  I  looked  Rugg 
as  fully  in  the  face  as  good  manners  would  allow,  and  said, 
"  Sir,  if  this  is  Boston,  I  acknowledge  New  York  is  not 
worthy  to  be  one  of  its  suburbs." 

Before  we  had  proceeded  far  in  Pearl  Street,  Rugg's 
countenance  changed  :  his  nerves  began  to  twitch ;  his  eyes 
trembled  in  their  sockets;  he  was  evidently  bewildered. 
"What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Rugg;  you  seem  disturbed." 

"  This  surpasses  all  human  comprehension ;  if  you  know, 
sir,  where  we  are,  I  beseech  you  to  tell  me." 

"If  this  place,"  I  replied,  "is  not  Boston,  it  must  be 
New  York." 

"  No,  sir,  it  is  not  Boston ;  nor  can  it  be  New  York. 
How  could  I  be  in  New  York,  which  is  nearly  two  hundred 
miles  from  Boston  ?  " 

By  this  time  we  had  passed  into  Broadway,  and  then 
Rugg,  in  truth,  discovered  a  chaotic  mind.  "  There  is  no 
such  place  as  this  in  North  America.  This  is  all  the  effect 
of  enchantment ;  this  is  a  grand  delusion,  nothing  real. 
Here  is  seemingly  a  great  city,  magnificent  houses,  shops 
and  goods,  men  and  women  innumerable,  and  as  busy  as 
in  real  life,  all  sprung  up  in  one  night  from  the  wilderness ; 
or  what  is  more  probable,  some  tremendous  convulsion  of 
Nature  has  thrown  London  or  Amsterdam  on  the  shores  of 
New  England.  Or,  possibly,  I  may  be  dreaming,  though 
the  night  seems  rather  long;  but  before  now  I  have  sailed 
in  one  night  to  Amsterdam,  bought  goods  of  Vandogger, 
and  returned  to  Boston  before  morning." 

At  this  moment  a  hue-and-cry  was  heard,  "  Stop  the 
madmen,  they  will  endanger  the  lives  of  thousands  !  "  In 
vain  hundreds  attempted  to  stop  Rugg's  horse.  Lightfoot 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  89 

interfered  with  nothing ;  his  course  was  straight  as  a 
shooting-star.  But  on  my  part,  fearful  that  before  night 
I  should  find  myself  behind  the  Alleghanies,  I  addressed 
Mr.  Rugg  in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  and  requested  him  to 
restrain  the  horse  and  permit  me  to  alight. 

"My  friend,"  said  he,  "we  shall  be  in  Boston  before 
dark,  and  Dame  Rugg  will  be  most  exceeding  glad  to 
see  us." 

"  Mr.  Rugg,"  said  I,  "  you  must  excuse  me.  Pray  look 
to  the  west;  see  that  thunder-cloud  swelling  with  rage,  as 
if  in  pursuit  of  us." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Rugg,  "  it  is  in  vain  to  attempt  to  escape. 
I  know  that  cloud ;  it  is  collecting  new  wrath  to  spend  on 
my  head."  Then  checking  his  horse,  he  permitted  me  to 
descend,  saying,  "  Farewell,  Mr.  Dunwell,  I  shall  be  happy 
to  see  you  in  Boston ;  I  live  in  Middle  Street." 

It  is  uncertain  in  what  direction  Mr.  Rugg  pursued  his 
course,  after  he  disappeared  in  Broadway ;  but  one  thing 
is  sufficiently  known  to  everybody,  —  that  in  the  course  of 
two  months  after  he  was  seen  in  New  York,  he  found  his 
way  most  opportunely  to  Boston. 

It  seems  the  estate  of  Peter  Rugg  had  recently  fallen  to 
the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts  for  want  of  heirs; 
and  the  Legislature  had  ordered  the  solicitor-general  to 
advertise  and  sell  it  at  public  auction.  Happening  to  be 
in  Boston  at  the  time,  and  observing  his  advertisement, 
which  described  a  considerable  extent  of  land,  I  felt  a 
kindly  curiosity  to  see  the  spot  where  Rugg  once  lived. 
Taking  the  advertisement  in  my  hand,  I  wandered  a  little 
way  down  Middle  Street,  and  without  asking  a  question  of 
any  one,  when  I  came  to  a  certain  spot  I  said  to  myself, 
"  This  is  Rugg's  estate ;  I  will  proceed  no  farther.  This 
must  be  the  spot;  it  is  a  counterpart  of  Peter  Rugg." 
The  premises,  indeed,  looked  as  if  they  had  fulfilled  a  sad 
prophecy.  Fronting  on  Middle  Street,  they  extended  in 
the  rear  to  Ann  Street,  and  embraced  about  half  an  acre  of 
land.  It  was  not  uncommon  in  former  times  to  have  half 


9o     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

an  acre  for  a  house-lot ;  for  an  acre  of  land  then,  in  many 
parts  of  Boston,  was  not  more  valuable  than  a  foot  in  some 
places  at  present.  The  old  mansion-house  had  become 
a  powder-post,  and  been  blown  away.  One  other  building, 
uninhabited,  stood  ominous,  courting  dilapidation.  The 
street  had  been  so  much  raised  that  the  bed-chamber  had 
descended  to  the  kitchen  and  was  level  with  the  street. 
The  house  seemed  conscious  of  its  fate ;  and  as  though 
tired  of  standing  there,  the  front  was  fast  retreating  from 
the  rear,  and  waiting  the  next  south  wind  to  project  itself 
into  the  street.  If  the  most  wary  animals  had  sought  a 
place  of  refuge,  here  they  would  have  rendezvoused. 
Here,  under  the  ridge-pole,  the  crow  would  have  perched 
in  security;  and  in  the  recesses  below,  you  might  have 
caught  the  fox  and  the  weasel  asleep.  "  The  hand  of 
destiny,"  said  I,  "has  pressed  heavy  on  this  spot;  still 
heavier  on  the  former  owners.  Strange  that  so  large  a  lot 
of  land  as  this  should  want  an  heir !  Yet  Peter  Rugg,  at 
this  day,  might  pass  by  his  own  door-stone,  and  ask,  '  Who 
once  lived  here?  '  " 

The  auctioneer,  appointed  by  the  solicitor  to  sell  this 
estate,  was  a  man  of  eloquence,  as  many  of  the  auctioneers 
of  Boston  are.  The  occasion  seemed  to  warrant,  and  his 
duty  urged,  him  to  make  a  display.  He  addressed  his 
audience  as  follows,  — 

"  The  estate,  gentlemen,  which  we  offer  you  this  day, 
was  once  the  property  of  a  family  now  extinct.  For  that 
reason  it  has  escheated  to  the  Commonwealth.  Lest  any 
one  of  you  should  be  deterred  from  bidding  on  so  large 
an  estate  as  this  for  fear  of  a  disputed  title,  I  am  author- 
ized by  the  solicitor-general  to  proclaim  that  the  purchaser 
shall  have  the  best  of  all  titles,  —  a  warranty-deed  from  the 
Commonwealth.  I  state  this,  gentlemen,  because  I  know 
there  is  an  idle  rumor  in  this  vicinity,  that  one  Peter 
Rugg,  the  original  owner  of  this  estate,  is  still  living. 
This  rumor,  gentlemen,  has  no  foundation,  and  can  have 
no  foundation  in  the  nature  of  things.  It  originated  about 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  91 

two  years  since,  from  the  incredible  story  of  one  Jonathan 
Dunwell,  of  New  York.  Mrs.  Croft,  indeed,  whose  hus- 
band I  see  present,  and  whose  mouth  waters  for  this  estate, 
has  countenanced  this  fiction.  But,  gentlemen,  was  it  ever 
known  that  any  estate,  especially  an  estate  of  this  value, 
lay  unclaimed  for  nearly  half  a  century,  if  any  heir,  ever  so 
remote,  were  existing  ?  For,  gentlemen,  all  agree  that  old 
Peter  Rugg,  if  living,  would  be  at  least  one  hundred  years 
of  age.  It  is  said  that  he  and  his  daughter,  with  a  horse 
and  chaise,  were  missed  more  than  half  a  century  ago ;  and 
because  they  never  returned  home,  forsooth,  they  must  be 
now  living,  and  will  some  day  come  and  claim  this  great 
estate.  Such  logic,  gentlemen,  never  led  to  a  good  invest- 
ment. Let  not  this  idle  story  cross  the  noble  purpose  of 
consigning  these  ruins  to  the  genius  of  architecture.  If 
such  a  contingency  could  check  the  spirit  of  enterprise, 
farewell  to  all  mercantile  excitement.  Your  surplus  money, 
instead  of  refreshing  your  sleep  with  the  golden  dreams  of 
new  sources  of  speculation,  would  turn  to  the  nightmare. 
A  man's  money,  if  not  employed,  serves  only  to  disturb 
his  rest.  Look,  then,  to  the  prospect  before  you.  Here  is 
half  an  acre  of  land,  —  more  than  twenty  thousand  square 
feet,  —  a  corner  lot,  with  wonderful  capabilities ;  none  of 
your  contracted  lots  of  forty  feet  by  fifty,  where,  in  dog- 
days,  you  can  breathe  only  through  your  scuttles.  On 
the  contrary,  an  architect  cannot  contemplate  this  lot  of 
land  without  rapture,  for  here  is  room  enough  for  his 
genius  to  shame  the  temple  of  Solomon.  Then  the  pros- 
pect —  how  commanding  !  To  the  east,  so  near  to  the 
Atlantic  that  Neptune,  freighted  with  the  select  treasures 
of  the  whole  earth,  can  knock  at  your  door  with  his  tri- 
dent. From  the  west,  the  produce  of  the  river  of  Para- 
dise —  the  Connecticut  —  will  soon,  by  the  blessings  of 
steam,  railways,  and  canals  pass  under  your  windows ;  and 
thus,  on  this  spot,  Neptune  shall  marry  Ceres,  and  Pomona 
from  Roxbury,  and  Flora  from  Cambridge,  shall  dance  at 
the  wedding. 


92     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  Gentlemen  of  science,  men  of  taste,  ye  of  the  literary 
emporium,  —  for  I  perceive  many  of  you  present,  —  to  you 
this  is  holy  ground.  If  the  spot  on  which  in  times  past 
a  hero  left  only  the  print  of  a  footstep  is  now  sacred,  of 
what  price  is  the  birthplace  of  one  who  all  the  world  knows 
was  born  in  Middle  Street,  directly  opposite  to  this  lot ;  and 
who,  if  his  birthplace  were  not  well  known,  would  now  be 
claimed  by  more  than  seven  cities.  To  you,  then,  the 
value  of  these  premises  must  be  inestimable.  For  ere  long 
there  will  arise  in  full  view  of  the  edifice  to  be  erected 
here,  a  monument,  the  wonder  and  veneration  of  the  world. 
A  column  shall  spring  to  the  clouds ;  and  on  that  column 
will  be  engraven  one  word  which  will  convey  all  that  is  wise 
in  intellect,  useful  in  science,  good  in  morals,  prudent  in 
counsel,  and  benevolent  in  principle,  —  a  name  of  one  who, 
when  living,  was  the  patron  of  the  poor,  the  delight  of  the 
cottage,  and  the  admiration  of  kings ;  now  dead,  worth  the 
whole  seven  wise  men  of  Greece.  Need  I  tell  you  his 
name?  He  fixed  the  thunder  and  guided  the  lightning. 

"  Men  of  the  North  End  !  Need  I  appeal  to  your  patriot- 
ism, in  order  to  enhance  the  value  of  this  lot?  The  earth 
affords  no  such  scenery  as  this ;  there,  around  that  corner, 
lived  James  Otis;  here,  Samuel  Adams;  there,  Joseph 
Warren;  and  around  that  other  corner,  Josiah  Quincy. 
Here  was  the  birthplace  of  Freedom ;  here  Liberty  was 
born,  and  nursed,  and  grew  to  manhood.  Here  man 
was  newly  created.  Here  is  the  nursery  of  American 
Independence  —  I  am  too  modest  —  here  began  the 
emancipation  of  the  world ;  a  thousand  generations  hence 
millions  of  men  will  cross  the  Atlantic  just  to  look  at  the 
north  end  of  Boston.  Your  fathers  —  what  do  I  say  — 
yourselves,  —  yes,  this  moment,  I  behold  several  attend- 
ing this  auction  who  lent  a  hand  to  rock  the  cradle  of 
Independence. 

"Men  of  speculation,  —  ye  who  are  deaf  to  everything 
except  the  sound  of  money,  —  you,  I  know,  will  give  me 
both  of  your  ears  when  I  tell  you  the  city  of  Boston  must 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  93 

have  a  piece  of  this  estate  in  order  to  widen  Ann  Street. 
Do  you  hear  me,  —  do  you  all  hear  me?  I  say  the  city 
must  have  a  large  piece  of  this  land  in  order  to  widen  Ann 
Street.  What  a  chance  !  The  city  scorns  to  take  a  man's 
land  for  nothing.  If  it  seizes  your  property,  it  is  generous 
beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  The  only  oppression  is,  you 
are  in  danger  of  being  smothered  under  a  load  of  wealth. 
Witness  the  old  lady  who  lately  died  of  a  broken  heart 
when  the  mayor  paid  her  for  a  piece  of  her  kitchen-garden. 
All  the  faculty  agreed  that  the  sight  of  the  treasure,  which 
the  mayor  incautiously  paid  her  in  dazzling  dollars,  warm 
from  the  mint,  sped  joyfully  all  the  blood  of  her  body  into 
her  heart,  and  rent  it  with  raptures.  Therefore,  let  him 
who  purchases  this  estate  fear  his  good  fortune,  and  not 
Peter  Rugg.  Bid,  then,  liberally,  and  do  not  let  the  name 
of  Rugg  damp  your  ardor.  How  much  will  you  give  per 
foot  for  this  estate?  " 

Thus  spoke  the  auctioneer,  and  gracefully  waved  his 
ivory  hammer.  From  fifty  to  seventy-five  cents  per  foot 
were  offered  in  a  few  moments.  The  bidding  labored  from 
seventy-five  to  ninety.  At  length  one  dollar  was  offered. 
The  auctioneer  seemed  satisfied ;  and  looking  at  his  watch, 
said  he  would  knock  off  the  estate  in  five  minutes,  if  no 
one  offered  more. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  during  this  short  period. 
While  the  hammer  was  suspended,  a  strange  rumbling 
noise  was  heard,  which  arrested  the  attention  of  every  one. 
Presently,  it  was  like  the  sound  of  many  shipwrights  driv- 
ing home  the  bolts  of  a  seventy- four.  As  the  sound  ap- 
proached nearer,  some  exclaimed,  "  The  buildings  in  the 
new  market  are  falling  in  promiscuous  ruins."  Others 
said,  "  No,  it  is  an  earthquake ;  we  perceive  the  earth 
tremble."  Others  said,  "  Not  so ;  the  sound  proceeds  from 
Hanover  Street,  and  approaches  nearer ;  "  and  this  proved 
true,  for  presently  Peter  Rugg  was  in  the  midst  of  us. 

"  Alas,  Jenny,"  said  Peter,  "  I  am  ruined  ;  our  house 
has  been  burned,  and  here  are  all  our  neighbors  around 


94     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

the  ruins.  Heaven  grant  your  mother,  Dame  Rugg,  is 
safe." 

"They  don't  look  like  our  neighbors,"  said  Jenny;  "but 
sure  enough  our  house  is  burned,  and  nothing  left  but 
the  door-stone  and  an  old  cedar  post.  Do  ask  where 
mother  is." 

In  the  mean  time  more  than  a  thousand  men  had  sur- 
rounded Rugg  and  his  horse  and  chair.  Yet  neither  Rugg 
personally,  nor  his  horse  and  carriage,  attracted  more  atten- 
tion than  the  auctioneer.  The  confident  look  and  search- 
ing eyes  of  Rugg  carried  more  conviction  to  every  one 
present  that  the  estate  was  his,  than  could  any  parchment 
or  paper  with  signature  and  seal.  The  impression  which 
the  auctioneer  had  just  made  on  the  company  was  effaced 
in  a  moment ;  and  although  the  latter  words  of  the  auc- 
tioneer were,  "  Fear  not  Peter  Rugg,"  the  moment  the 
auctioneer  met  the  eye  of  Rugg  his  occupation  was  gone ; 
his  arm  fell  down  to  his  hips,  his  late  lively  hammer  hung 
heavy  in  his  hand,  and  the  auction  was  forgotten.  The 
black  horse,  too,  gave  his  evidence.  He  knew  his  journey 
was  ended ;  for  he  stretched  himself  into  a  horse  and  a  half, 
rested  his  head  over  the  cedar  post,  and  whinnied  thrice, 
causing  his  harness  to  tremble  from  headstall  to  crupper. 

Rugg  then  stood  upright  in  his  chair,  and  asked  with 
some  authority,  "  Who  has  demolished  my  house  in  my 
absence,  for  I  see  no  signs  of  a  conflagration?  I  demand 
by  what  accident  this  has  happened,  and  wherefore  this 
collection  of  strange  people  has  assembled  before  my  door- 
step. I  thought  I  knew  every  man  in  Boston,  but  you 
appear  to  me  a  new  generation  of  men.  Yet  I  am  familiar 
with  many  of  the  countenances  here  present,  and  I  can  call 
some  of  you  by  name ;  but  in  truth  I  do  not  recollect  that 
before  this  moment  I  ever  saw  any  one  of  you.  There,  I 
am  certain,  is  a  Winslow,  and  here  a  Sargent ;  there  stands 
a  Sewall,  and  next  to  him  a  Dudley.  Will  none  of  you 
speak  to  me, — or  is  this  all  a  delusion?  I  see,  indeed, 
many  forms  of  men,  and  no  want  of  eyes,  but  of  motion, 


WILLIAM   AUSTIN  95 

speech,  and  hearing,  you  seem  to  be  destitute.     Strange  ! 
Will  no  one  inform  me  who  has  demolished  my  house?" 

Then  spake  a  voice  from  the  crowd,  but  whence  it  came 
I  could  not  discern :  "  There  is  nothing  strange  here  but 
yourself,  Mr.  Rugg.  Time,  which  destroys  and  renews  all 
things,  has  dilapidated  your  house,  and  placed  us  here. 
You  have  suffered  many  years  under  an  illusion.  The 
tempest  which  you  profanely  defied  at  Menotomy  has  at 
length  subsided ;  but  you  will  never  see  home,  for  your 
house  and  wife  and  neighbors  have  all  disappeared.  Your 
estate,  indeed,  remains,  but  no  home.  You  were  cut  off 
from  the  last  age,  and  you  can  never  be  fitted  to  the 
present.  Your  home  is  gone,  and  you  can  never  have 
another  home  in  this  world." 


JAMES   HALL 

1793  - 1868 

JUDGE  HALL  gained  eminence  in  the  early  Middle  West  at 
both  law  and  letters.  His  law  studies  in  Philadelphia,  where 
he  was  born,  were  interrupted  by  the  war  of  1812.  After  sol- 
diering along  the  Niagara  he  went  sailoring  with  Decatur  in 
the  Mediterranean  (1815).  Then  completing  his  studies  at 
Pittsburgh,  he  emigrated  to  Shawneetown,  where  he  became 
public  prosecutor.  The  office  of  state  treasurer  bringing  him 
to  Vandalia,  he  edited  there,  with  Robert  Blackwell,  the  Illi- 
nois Intelligencer.  The  Western  Souvenir,  projected,  edited, 
and  largely  written  by  him,  was  published  at  Cincinnati  in 
1829;  the  Illinois  Magazine,  at  Vandalia,  1829-1831,  then  suc- 
cessively at  Cincinnati,  St.  Louis,  and  again  at  Cincinnati. 
Following  himself  its  last  remove,  Hall  continued  it  there, 
1833-1835,  as  the  Western  Monthly  Magazine.  Letters  from 
the  West,  which  appeared  first,  1821-1824,  in  the  Portfolio, 
were  printed  collectively  in  London,  1828.  His  scattered  ob- 
servations were  brought  into  more  consistent  form :  Sketches 
of  the  West,  Philadelphia,  1835 ;  Notes  on  the  Western  States, 
Philadelphia,  1838.  A  collection  of  his  tales,  entitled  The  Wil- 
derness and  the  War  Path,  appeared  in  Wiley  and  Putnam's 
"  Library  of  American  Books,"  1846.  A  uniform  edition  of  his 
works  was  published  in  four  volumes,  1853-1856  (a  list  is  given 
in  the  American  Cyclopedia).  Some  details  of  his  life  not 
compiled  in  the  cyclopedias  were  published  by  Hiram  W.  Beck- 
with  of  Danville,  in  the  fifth  of  the  papers  entitled  "  The  Land 
of  the  Illini,"  Chicago  Tribune,  8th  September,  1895. 

A  writer  of  tolerable  verse  and  historically  valuable  descrip- 
tive sketches  of  the  frontier,  Hall  gave  much  of  his  leisure  also 
to  embodying  the  history,  legend,  and  local  color  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi valley  and  the  prairies  beyond  in  tales.  These  are 
often  removed  from  our  present  taste  by  the  magniloquence 
then  considered  literary;  but  they  keep  the  interest  of  close 
observation  and  have  their  flashes  of  enduring  human  import. 
The  local  truth  of  Hall's  tales  is  commended  in  the  Western 
Monthly  Review  for  November,  1828  (volume  ii,  page  367). 
Unless  the  reference  be  to  some  of  the  early  Letters  from  the 
West,  the  tale  printed  below  may  have  appeared  earlier  than 
the  date  of  its  incorporation  in  the  Western  Souvenir.  (See 
also  pages  5,  9  and  12  of  the  Introduction.) 
7 


THE  FRENCH  VILLAGE 

[From  the  "Western  Souvenir,"  1829] 

[A  long  introduction  and  a  concluding  summary  of  the  effects 
of  American  development  have  been  omitted  as  not  essential  to 
the  narrative ;  and  certain  obvious  corrections  have  been  made 
in  the  text.] 

THIS  little  colony  was  composed  partly  of  emigrants 
from  France,  and  partly  of  natives  —  not  Indians, 
but  bona  fide  French,  born  in  America,  but  preserving 
their  language,  their  manners,  and  their  agility  in  dancing, 
although  several  generations  had  passed  away  since  their 
first  settlement.  Here  they  lived  perfectly  happy,  and  well 
they  might,  for  they  enjoyed  to  the  full  extent  those  three 
blessings  on  which  our  declaration  of  independence  has 
laid  so  much  stress  —  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness. Their  lives,  it  is  true,  were  sometimes  threatened 
by  the  miasm  aforesaid;  but  this  was  soon  ascertained 
to  be  an  imaginary  danger.  For  whether  it  was  owing  to 
their  temperance  or  their  cheerfulness,  their  activity  or 
their  being  acclimated,  or  to  the  want  of  attraction  between 
French  people  and  fever,  or  to  all  these  together,  certain 
it  is  that  they  were  blessed  with  a  degree  of  health  enjoyed 
only  by  the  most  favoured  nations.  As  to  liberty,  the  wild 
Indian  scarcely  possessed  more ;  for  although  the  "  grand 
monarque  "  had  not  more  loyal  subjects  in  his  wide  do- 
mains, he  had  never  condescended  to  honor  them  with  a 
single  act  of  oppression,  unless  the  occasional  visits  of  the 
Commandant  could  be  so  called.  He  sometimes,  when 
levying  supplies,  called  upon  the  village  for  its  portion, 
99 


ioo    AMERICAN   SHORT  STORIES 

which  they  always  contributed  with  many  protestations  of 
gratitude  for  the  honor  conferred  on  them.  And  as  for 
happiness,  they  pursued  nothing  else.  Inverting  the  usual 
order,  to  enjoy  life  was  their  daily  business,  to  provide  for 
its  wants  an  occasional  labor,  sweetened  by  its  brief  con- 
tinuance, and  its  abundant  fruit.  A  large  tract  of  land 
around  the  village  was  called  the  "  common  field."  Most 
of  this  was  allowed  to  remain  in  open  pasturage ;  but  spots 
of  it  were  cultivated  by  any  who  chose  to  enclose  them ; 
and  such  enclosure  gave  a  firm  title  to  the  individual  so 
long  as  the  occupancy  lasted,  but  no  longer.  They  were 
not  an  agricultural  people,  further  than  the  rearing  of  a  few 
esculents  for  the  table  made  them  such ;  relying  chiefly  on 
their  large  herds,  and  on  the  produce  of  the  chase  for  sup- 
port. With  the  Indians  they  drove  an  amicable,  though 
not  extensive,  trade,  for  furs  and  peltry;  giving  them  in 
exchange,  merchandize  and  trinkets,  which  they  procured 
from  their  countrymen  at  St.  Louis.  To  the  latter  place 
they  annually  carried  their  skins,  bringing  back  a  fresh  sup- 
ply of  goods  for  barter,  together  with  such  articles  as  their 
own  wants  required  ;  not  forgetting  a  large  portion  of  finery 
for  the  ladies,  a  plentiful  supply  of  rosin  and  catgut  for  the 
fiddler,  and  liberal  presents  for  his  reverence,  the  priest. 

If  this  village  had  no  other  recommendation,  it  is  en- 
deared to  my  recollection  as  the  birth-place  and  residence 
of  Monsieur  Baptiste  Menou,  who  was  one  of  its  principal 
inhabitants  when  I  first  visited  it.  He  was  a  bachelor  of 
forty,  a  tall,  lank,  hard  featured  personage,  as  straight  as  a 
ramrod,  and  almost  as  thin,  with  stiff,  black  hair,  sunken 
cheeks,  and  a  complexion  a  tinge  darker  than  that  of  the 
aborigines.  His  person  was  remarkably  erect,  his  counte- 
nance grave,  his  gait  deliberate ;  and  when  to  all  this  is 
added  an  enormous  pair  of  sable  whiskers,  it  will  be  ad- 
mitted that  Mons.  Baptiste  was  no  insignificant  person. 
He  had  many  estimable  qualities  of  mind  and  person  which 
endeared  him  to  his  friends,  whose  respect  was  increased 
by  the  fact  of  his  having  been  a  soldier  and  a  traveller.  In 


JAMES   HALL  101 

his  youth  he  had  followed  the  French  Commandant  in  two 
campaigns;  and  not  a  comrade  in  the  ranks  was  better 
dressed,  or  cleaner  shaved  on  parade  than  Baptiste,  who 
fought  besides  with  the  characteristic  bravery  of  the  nation 
to  which  he  owed  his  lineage.  He  acknowledged,  however, 
that  war  was  not  as  pleasant  a  business  as  is  generally  sup- 
posed. Accustomed  to  a  life  totally  free  from  constraint, 
he  complained  of  being  obliged  to  eat  and  drink  and 
sleep  at  the  call  of  the  drum.  Burnishing  a  gun,  and  brush- 
ing a  coat,  and  polishing  shoes,  were  duties  beneath  a  gen- 
tleman ;  and  after  all,  Baptiste  saw  but  little  honor  in 
tracking  the  wily  Indians  through  endless  swamps.  Be- 
sides he  began  to  have  some  scruples  as  to  the  propriety 
of  cutting  the  throats  of  the  respectable  gentry  whom  he 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  considering  as  the  original  and 
lawful  possessors  of  the  soil.  He  therefore  proposed  to 
resign,  and  was  surprised  when  his  commander  informed 
him  that  he  was  enlisted  for  a  term,  which  was  not  yet 
expired.  He  bowed,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  sub- 
mitted to  his  fate.  He  had  too  much  honor  to  desert, 
and  was  too  loyal,  and  too  polite,  to  murmur ;  but  he  forth- 
with made  a  solemn  vow  to  his  patron  saint  never  again  to 
get  into  a  scrape  from  which  he  could  not  retreat  whenever 
it  suited  his  convenience.  It  was  thought  that  he  owed  his 
celibacy  in  some  measure  to  this  vow.  He  had  since  ac- 
companied the  friendly  Indians  on  several  hunting  expedi- 
tions towards  the  sources  of  the  Mississippi,  and  had  made 
a  trading  voyage  to  New  Orleans.  Thus  accomplished,  he 
had  been  more  than  once  called  upon  by  the  Commandant 
to  act  as  a  guide,  or  an  interpreter;  honors  which  failed 
not  to  elicit  suitable  marks  of  respect  from  his  fellow  vil- 
lagers, but  which  had  not  inflated  the  honest  heart  of  Bap- 
tiste with  any  unbecoming  pride.  On  the  contrary  there 
was  not  a  more  modest  man  in  the  village. 

In  his  habits  he  was  the  most  regular  of  men.  He  might 
be  seen  at  any  hour  of  the  day,  either  sauntering  through 
the  village,  or  seated  in  front  of  his  own  door,  smoking  a 


102     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

large  pipe  formed  of  a  piece  of  buckhorn,  curiously  hol- 
lowed out,  and  lined  with  tin ;  to  which  was  affixed  a  short 
stem  of  cane  from  the  neighboring  swamp.  This  pipe  was 
his  inseparable  companion;  and  he  evinced  towards  it  a 
constancy  which  would  have  immortalized  his  name,  had  it 
been  displayed  in  a  better  cause.  When  he  walked  abroad, 
it  was  to  stroll  leisurely  from  door  to  door,  chatting  famil- 
iarly with  his  neighbours,  patting  the  white-haired  children 
on  the  head,  and  continuing  his  lounge,  until  he  had  pere- 
grinated the  village.  His  gravity  was  not  a  "mysterious 
carriage  of  the  body  to  conceal  the  defects  of  the  mind," 
but  a  constitutional  seriousness  of  aspect,  which  covered  as 
happy  and  as  humane  a  spirit  as  ever  existed.  It  was 
simply  a  want  of  sympathy  between  his  muscles  and  his 
brains ;  the  former  utterly  refusing  to  express  any  agreeable 
sensation  which  might  happily  titillate  the  organs  of  the 
latter.  Honest  Baptiste  loved  a  joke,  and  uttered  many, 
and  good  ones ;  but  his  rigid  features  refused  to  smile  even 
at  his  own  wit  —  a  circumstance  which  I  am  the  more  par- 
ticular in  mentioning,  as  it  is  not  common.  He  had  an 
orphan  niece  whom  he  had  reared  from  childhood  to 
maturity,  —  a  lovely  girl,  of  whose  beautiful  complexion 
a  poet  might  say  that  its  roses  were  cushioned  upon 
ermine.  A  sweeter  flower  bloomed  not  upon  the  prairie 
than  Gabrielle  Menou.  But  as  she  was  never  afflicted  with 
weak  nerves,  dyspepsia  or  consumption,  and  had  but  one 
avowed  lover,  whom  she  treated  with  uniform  kindness,  and 
married  with  the  consent  of  all  parties,  she  has  no  claim  to 
be  considered  as  the  heroine  of  this  history.  That  station 
will  be  awarded  by  every  sensible  reader  to  the  important 
personage  who  will  be  presently  introduced. 

Across  the  street,  immediately  opposite  to  Mons.  Bap- 
tiste, lived  Mademoiselle  Jeannette  Duval,  a  lady  who  re- 
sembled him  in  some  respects,  but  in  many  others  was  his 
very  antipode.  Like  him,  she  was  cheerful  and  happy,  and 
single ;  but  unlike  him,  she  was  brisk,  and  fat,  and  plump. 
Monsieur  was  the  very  pink  of  gravity ;  and  Mademoiselle 


JAMES   HALL  103 

was  blessed  with  a  goodly  portion  thereof,  —  but  hers  was 
specific  gravity.  Her  hair  was  dark,  but  her  heart  was 
light,  and  her  eyes,  though  black,  were  as  brilliant  a  pair 
of  orbs  as  ever  beamed  upon  the  dreary  solitude  of  a 
bachelor's  heart.  Jeannette's  heels  were  as  light  as  her 
heart,  and  her  tongue  as  active  as  her  heels,  so  that  not- 
withstanding her  rotundity,  she  was  as  brisk  a  French- 
woman as  ever  frisked  through  the  mazes  of  a  cotillion. 
To  sum  her  perfections,  her  complexion  was  of  a  darker 
olive  than  the  genial  sun  of  France  confers  on  her  bru- 
nettes, and  her  skin  was  as  smooth  and  shining  as  polished 
mahogany.  Her  whole  household  consisted  of  herself  and 
a  female  negro  servant.  A  spacious  garden,  which  sur- 
rounded her  house,  a  pony,  and  a  herd  of  cattle,  consti- 
tuted, in  addition  to  her  personal  charms,  all  the  wealth  of 
this  amiable  spinster.  But  with  these  she  was  rich,  as  they 
supplied  her  table  without  adding  much  to  her  cares.  Her 
quadrupeds,  according  to  the  example  set  by  their  supe- 
riors, pursued  their  own  happiness  without  let  or  molesta- 
tion, wherever  they  could  find  it  —  waxing  fat  or  lean,  as 
nature  was  more  or  less  bountiful  in  supplying  their  wants ; 
and  when  they  strayed  too  far,  or  when  her  agricultural 
labours  became  too  arduous  for  the  feminine  strength  of 
herself  and  her  sable  assistant,  every  monsieur  of  the  vil- 
lage was  proud  of  an  occasion  to  serve  Mam'selle.  And 
well  they  might  be,  for  she  was  the  most  noticeable  lady  in 
the  village,  the  life  of  every  party,  the  soul  of  every  frolic. 
She  participated  in  every  festive  meeting,  and  every  sad 
solemnity.  Not  a  neighbor  could  get  up  a  dance,  or  get 
down  a  dose  of  bark,  without  her  assistance.  If  the  ball 
grew  dull,  Mam'selle  bounced  on  the  floor,  and  infused 
new  spirit  into  the  weary  dancers.  If  the  conversation 
flagged,  Jeannette,  who  occupied  a  kind  of  neutral  ground 
between  the  young  and  the  old,  the  married  and  the  single, 
chatted  with  all,  and  loosened  all  tongues.  If  the  girls 
wished  to  stroll  in  the  woods,  or  romp  on  the  prairie, 
Mam'selle  was  taken  along  to  keep  off  the  wolves  and  the 


io4     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

rude  young  men ;  and  in  respect  to  the  latter,  she  faith- 
fully performed  her  office  by  attracting  them  around  her 
own  person.  Then  she  was  the  best  neighbour  and  the 
kindest  soul !  She  made  the  richest  soup,  the  clearest 
coffee,  and  the  neatest  pastry  in  the  village  ;  and  in  virtue 
of  her  confectionery  was  the  prime  favourite  of  all  the  chil- 
dren. Her  hospitality  was  not  confined  to  her  own  domi- 
cile, but  found  its  way  in  the  shape  of  sundry  savoury 
viands,  to  every  table  in  the  vicinity.  In  the  sick  cham- 
ber she  was  the  most  assiduous  nurse,  her  step  was  the 
lightest,  and  her  voice  the  most  cheerful  —  so  that  the 
priest  must  inevitably  have  become  jealous  of  her  skill, 
had  it  not  been  for  divers  plates  of  rich  soup,  and  bottles 
of  cordial,  with  which  she  conciliated  his  favour,  and  pur- 
chased absolution  for  these  and  other  offences. 

Baptiste  and  Jeannette  were  the  best  of  neighbours.  He 
always  rose  at  the  dawn,  and  after  lighting  his  pipe, 
sallied  forth  into  the  open  air,  where  Jeannette  usually  made 
her  appearance  at  the  same  time ;  for  there  was  an  emula- 
tion of  long  standing  between  them,  which  should  be  the 
earlier  riser. 

"  Bon  jour  !  Mam'selle  Jeannette,"  was  his  daily  salutation. 

"  Ah  !  bon  jour  !  Mons.  Menou,"  was  her  daily  reply. 

Then  as  he  gradually  approximated  the  little  paling 
which  surrounded  her  door,  he  hoped  Mam'selle  was 
well  this  morning,  and  she  reiterated  the  kind  inquiry,  but 
with  increased  emphasis.  Then  Monsieur  enquired  after 
Mam'selle's  pony  and  Mam'selle's  cow,  and  her  garden, 
and  everything  appertaining  to  her,  real,  personal  and 
mixed ;  and  she  displayed  a  corresponding  interest  in  all 
concerns  of  her  kind  neighbour.  These  discussions  were 
mutually  beneficial.  If  Mam'selle's  cattle  ailed,  or  if  her 
pony  was  guilty  of  an  impropriety,  who  was  so  able  to 
advise  her  as  Mons.  Baptiste  ?  And  if  his  plants  drooped, 
or  his  poultry  died,  who  so  skilful  in  such  matters  as 
Mam'selle  Jeanette?  Sometimes  Baptiste  forgot  his  pipe 
in  the  superior  interest  of  the  "tete  a  tete,"  and  must 


JAMES   HALL  105 

needs  step  in  to  light  it  at  Jeannette's  fire,  which  caused 
the  gossips  of  the  village  to  say  that  he  purposely  let  his 
pipe  go  out,  in  order  that  he  might  himself  go  in.  But 
he  denied  this,  and,  indeed,  before  offering  to  enter  the 
dwelling  of  Mam'selle  on  such  occasions,  he  usually  solic- 
ited permission  to  light  his  pipe  at  Jeannette's  sparkling 
eyes,  a  compliment  at  which,  although  it  had  been  repeated 
some  scores  of  times,  Mam'selle  never  failed  to  laugh  and 
curtesy,  with  great  good  humour  and  good  breeding. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  a  bachelor  of  so  much  dis- 
cernment could  long  remain  insensible  to  the  galaxy  of 
charms  which  centered  in  the  person  of  Mam'selle  Jean- 
nette ;  and  accordingly  it  was  currently  reported  that  a  court- 
ship of  some  ten  years  standing  had  been  slyly  conducted 
on  his  part,  and  as  cunningly  eluded  on  hers.  It  was  not 
averred  that  Baptiste  had  actually  gone  the  fearful  length 
of  offering  his  hand ;  or  that  Jeannette  had  been  so  impru- 
dent as  to  discourage,  far  less  reject,  a  lover  of  such  respect- 
able pretensions.  But  there  was  thought  to  exist  a  strong 
hankering  on  the  part  of  the  gentleman,  which  the  lady 
had  managed  so  skilfully  as  to  keep  his  mind  in  a  kind 
of  equilibrium,  like  that  of  the  patient  animal  between  the 
two  bundles  of  hay  —  so  that  he  would  sometimes  halt  in 
the  street,  midway  between  the  two  cottages,  and  cast 
furtive  glances,  first  at  the  one,  and  then  at  the  other,  as 
if  weighing  the  balance  of  comfort,  while  the  increased 
volumes  of  smoke  which  issued  from  his  mouth  seemed  to 
argue  that  the  fire  of  his  love  had  other  fuel  than  tobacco, 
and  was  literally  consuming  the  inward  man.  The  wary 
spinster  was  always  on  the  alert  on  such  occasions,  manoeu- 
vering  like  a  skilful  general  according  to  circumstances.  If 
honest  Baptiste,  after  such  a  consultation,  turned  on  his 
heel  and  retired  to  his  former  cautious  position  at  his  own 
door,  Mam'selle  rallied  all  her  attractions,  and  by  a  sudden 
demonstration  drew  him  again  into  the  field;  but  if  he 
marched  with  an  embarrassed  air  towards  her  gate,  she 
retired  into  her  castle,  or  kept  shy,  and  by  able  evolutions 


106     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

avoided  everything  which  might  bring  matters  to  an  issue. 
Thus  the  courtship  continued  longer  than  the  siege  of 
Troy,  and  Jeannette  maintained  her  freedom,  while  Baptiste 
with  a  magnanimity  superior  to  that  of  Agamemnon,  kept 
his  temper,  and  smoked  his  pipe  in  good  humour  with 
Jeannette  and  all  the  world. 

Such  was  the  situation  of  affairs  when  I  first  visited  this 
village,  about  the  time  of  the  cession  of  Louisiana  to  the 
United  States.  The  news  of  that  event  had  just  reached 
this  sequestered  spot,  and  was  but  indifferently  relished. 
Independently  of  the  national  attachment,  which  all  men 
feel,  and  the  French  so  justly,  the  inhabitants  of  this  region 
had  reason  to  prefer  to  all  others  the  government  which 
had  afforded  them  protection  without  constraining  their 
freedom,  or  subjecting  them  to  any  burthens ;  and  with  the 
kindest  feelings  towards  the  Americans,  they  would  will- 
ingly have  dispensed  with  any  nearer  connexion  than  that 
which  already  existed.  They,  however,  said  little  on  the 
subject;  and  that  little  was  expressive  of  their  cheerful 
acquiescence  in  the  honor  done  them  by  the  American 
people,  in  buying  the  country  which  the  Emperor  had 
done  them  the  honor  to  sell. 

It  was  on  the  first  day  of  the  Carnival  that  I  arrived 
in  the  village,  about  sunset,  seeking  shelter  only  for  the 
night,  and  intending  to  proceed  on  my  journey  in  the 
morning.  The  notes  of  the  violin  and  the  groups  of  gaily 
attired  people  who  thronged  the  street  attracted  my  atten- 
tion, and  induced  me  to  inquire  the  occasion  of  this  merri- 
ment. My  host  informed  me  that  a  "  King  Ball  "  was  to 
be  given  at  the  house  of  a  neighbour,  adding  the  agreeable 
intimation  that  strangers  were  always  expected  to  attend 
without  invitation.  Young  and  ardent,  I  required  little 
persuasion  to  change  my  dress,  and  hasten  to  the  scene  of 
festivity.  The  moment  I  entered  the  room,  I  felt  that  I 
was  welcome.  Not  a  single  look  of  surprise,  not  a  glance 
of  more  than  ordinary  attention,  denoted  me  as  a  stranger, 
or  an  unexpected  guest.  The  gentlemen  nearest  the  door, 


JAMES   HALL  107 

bowed  as  they  opened  a  passage  for  me  through  the  crowd, 
in  which  for  a  time  I  mingled,  apparently  unnoticed.  At 
length  a  young  gentleman  adorned  with  a  large  nosegay 
approached  me,  invited  me  to  join  the  dancers,  and  after 
inquiring  my  name,  introduced  me  to  several  females, 
among  whom  I  had  no  difficulty  in  selecting  a  graceful 
partner.  I  was  passionately  fond  of  dancing,  so  that 
readily  imbibing  the  joyous  spirit  of  those  around  me,  I 
advanced  rapidly  in  their  estimation.  The  native  ease 
and  elegance  of  the  females,  reared  in  the  wilderness, 
and  unhackneyed  in  the  forms  of  society,  surprised  and 
delighted  me,  as  much  as  the  amiable  frankness  of  all 
classes.  By  and  by  the  dancing  ceased,  and  four  young 
ladies  of  exquisite  beauty,  who  had  appeared  during  the 
evening  to  assume  more  consequence  than  the  others, 
stood  alone  on  the  floor.  For  a  moment  their  arch  glances 
wandered  over  the  company  who  stood  silently  around, 
when  one  of  them  advancing  to  a  young  gentleman  led 
him  into  the  circle,  and  taking  a  large  bouquet  from  her 
own  bosom,  pinned  it  upon  the  left  breast  of  his  coat,  and 
pronounced  him  "  KING  !  "  The  gentleman  kissed  his 
fair  elector,  and  led  her  to  a  seat.  Two  others  were 
selected  almost  at  the  same  moment.  The  fourth  lady 
hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  advancing  to  the  spot  where 
I  stood,  presented  me  her  hand,  led  me  forward  and 
placed  the  symbol  on  my  breast,  before  I  could  recover 
from  the  surprise  into  which  the  incident  had  thrown 
me.  I  regained  my  presence  of  mind,  however,  in  time 
to  salute  my  lovely  consort;  and  never  did  king  enjoy 
with  more  delight  the  first  fruits  of  his  elevation ;  for 
the  beautiful  Gabrielle,  with  whom  I  had  just  danced, 
and  who  had  so  unexpectedly  raised  me,  as  it  were,  to 
the  purple,  was  the  freshest  and  fairest  flower  in  this 
assemblage. 

The  ceremony  was  soon  explained  to  me.  On  the  first 
day  of  the  Carnival,  four  self-appointed  kings,  having 
selected  their  queens,  give  a  ball,  at  their  own  proper 


io8     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

costs,  to  the  whole  village.  In  the  course  of  that  evening 
the  queens  select,  in  the  manner  described,  the  kings  for 
the  ensuing  day,  who  choose  their  queens,  in  turn,  by  pre- 
senting the  nosegay  and  the  kiss.  This  is  repeated  every 
evening  in  the  week,  the  kings  for  the  time  being  giving 
the  ball  at  their  own  expense,  and  all  the  inhabitants 
attending  without  invitation.  On  the  morning  after  each 
ball,  the  kings  of  the  preceding  evening  make  small  pres- 
ents to  their  late  queens,  and  their  temporary  alliance  is 
dissolved.  Thus  commenced  my  acquaintance  with  Gabri- 
elle  Menou,  who,  if  she  cost  me  a  few  sleepless  nights, 
amply  repaid  me  in  the  many  happy  hours  for  which  I  was 
indebted  to  her  friendship. 

I  remained  several  weeks  at  this  hospitable  village.  Few 
evenings  passed  without  a  dance,  at  which  all  were  assem- 
bled, young  and  old;  the  mothers  vying  in  agility  with 
their  daughters,  and  the  old  men  setting  examples  of  gal- 
lantry to  the  young.  I  accompanied  their  young  men  to 
the  Indian  towns,  and  was  hospitably  entertained.  I  fol- 
lowed them  to  the  chase,  and  witnessed  the  fall  of  many 
a  noble  buck.  In  their  light  canoes  I  glided  over  the 
turbid  waters  of  the  Mississippi,  or  through  the  labyrinths 
of  the  morass,  in  pursuit  of  water  fowl.  I  visited  the 
mounds  where  the  bones  of  thousands  of  warriors  were 
mouldering,  overgrown  with  prairie  violets  and  thousands 
of  nameless  flowers.  J  saw  the  moccasin  snake  basking 
in  the  sun,  the  elk  feeding  on  the  prairie  ;  and  returned 
to  mingle  in  the  amusements  of  a  circle,  where,  if  there 
was  not  Parisian  elegance,  there  was  more  than  Parisian 
cordiality. 

Several  years  passed  away  before  I  again  visited  this 
country.  The  jurisdiction  of  the  American  government 
was  now  extended  over  this  immense  region,  and  its  bene- 
ficial effects  were  beginning  to  be  widely  disseminated. 
The  roads  were  crowded  with  the  teams,  and  herds,  and 
families  of  emigrants,  hastening  to  the  land  of  promise. 
Steamboats  navigated  every  stream,  the  axe  was  heard  in 


JAMES   HALL  109 

every  forest,  and  the  plough  broke  the  sod  whose  verdure 
had  covered  the  prairie  for  ages. 

It  was  sunset  when  I  reached  the  margin  of  the  prairie 
on  which  the  village  is  situated.  My  horse,  wearied  with  a 
long  day's  travel,  sprang  forward  with  new  vigour,  when  his 
hoof  struck  the  smooth,  firm  road  which  led  across  the 
plain.  It  was  a  narrow  path,  winding  among  the  tall  grass, 
now  tinged  with  the  mellow  hues  of  autumn.  I  gazed  with 
delight  over  the  beautiful  surface.  The  mounds,  and  the 
solitary  trees,  were  there,  just  as  I  had  left  them ;  and  they 
were  familiar  to  my  eye  as  the  objects  of  yesterday.  It 
was  eight  miles  across  the  prairie,  and  I  had  not  passed 
half  the  distance  when  night  set  in.  I  strained  my  eyes  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  village ;  but  two  large  mounds  and  a 
clump  of  trees,  which  intervened,  defeated  my  purpose.  I 
thought  of  Gabrielle,  and  Jeannette,  and  Baptiste,  and  the 
priest  —  the  fiddles,  dances,  and  French  ponies ;  and  fan- 
cied every  minute  an  hour,  and  every  foot  a  mile,  which 
separated  me  from  scenes  and  persons  so  deeply  impressed 
on  my  imagination. 

At  length  I  passed  the  mounds,  and  beheld  the  lights 
twinkling  in  the  village,  now  about  two  miles  off,  like  a  bril- 
liant constellation  in  the  horizon.  The  lights  seemed  very 
numerous  —  I  thought  they  moved ;  and  at  last  discovered 
that  they  were  rapidly  passing  about.  "  What  can  be  going 
on  in  the  village?"  thought  I  —  then  a  strain  of  music  met 
my  ear  —  "  they  are  going  to  dance,"  said  I,  striking  my 
spurs  into  my  jaded  nag,  "  and  I  shall  see  all  my  friends 
together."  But  as  I  drew  near,  a  volume  of  sounds  burst 
upon  me  such  as  defied  all  conjecture.  Fiddles,  flutes  and 
tambourines,  drums,  cow-horns,  tin  trumpets,  and  kettles 
mingled  their  discordant  notes  with  a  strange  accompani- 
ment of  laughter,  shouts  and  singing.  This  singular  con- 
cert proceeded  from  a  mob  of  men  and  boys,  who  paraded 
through  the  streets,  preceded  by  one  who  blew  an  immense 
tin  horn,  and  ever  and  anon  shouted,  "  Cha-ri-va-ry  !  Cha- 
rivary ! "  to  which  the  mob  responded  "Charivary!"  I 


no    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

now  recollected  having  heard  of  a  custom  which  prevails 
among  the  American  French  of  serenading  at  the  marriage 
of  a  widow  or  widower,  with  such  a  concert  as  I  now  wit- 
nessed ;  and  I  rode  towards  the  crowd,  who  had  halted 
before  a  well  known  door,  to  ascertain  who  were  the  happy 
parties. 

"  Charivary  ! "  shouted  the  leader. 

"Pour  qui?"  said  another  voice. 

"  Pour  Mons.  Baptiste  Menou.     II  s'est  marie"  !  " 

"Avec  qui?" 

"  Avec  Mam'selle  Jeannette  Duval  —  Charivary  !  " 

"  Charivary  ! "  shouted  the  whole  company,  and  a  torrent 
of  music  poured  from  the  full  band  —  tin  kettles,  cow-horns 
and  all. 

The  door  of  the  little  cabin,  whose  hospitable  threshold  I 
had  so  often  crossed,  now  opened,  and  Baptiste  made  his 
appearance,  —  the  identical,  lank,  sallow,  erect  personage 
with  whom  I  had  parted  several  years  before,  with  the  same 
pipe  in  his  mouth.  His  visage  was  as  long  and  as  melan- 
choly as  ever,  except  that  there  was  a  slight  tinge  of 
triumph  in  its  expression,  and  a  bashful  casting  down  of 
the  eye,  reminding  one  of  a  conqueror,  proud  but  modest 
in  his  glory.  He  gazed  with  an  embarrassed  air  at  the 
serenaders,  bowed  repeatedly,  as  if  conscious  that  he  was 
the  hero  of  the  night,  and  then  exclaimed, 

"For  what  make  you  this  charivary?" 

"Charivary!"  shouted  the  mob;  and  the  tin  trumpets 
gave  an  exquisite  flourish. 

"  Gentlemen  !  "  expostulated  the  bridegroom,  "  for  why 
you  make  this  charivary  for  me?  I  have  never  been  marry 
before  —  and  Mam'selle  Jeannette  has  never  been  marry 
before ! " 

Roll  went  the  drum  !  —  cow-horns,  kettles,  tin  trumpets 
and  fiddles  poured  forth  volumes  of  sound,  and  the  mob 
shouted  in  unison. 

"Gentlemen!  pardonnez  moi  — "  supplicated  the  dis- 
tressed Baptiste.  "  If  I  understan  dis  custom,  which  have 


JAMES   HALL  in 

long  prevail  vid  us,  it  is  vat  I  say  —  ven  a  gentilman,  who 
has  been  marry  before,  shall  marry  de  second  time  —  or 
ven  a  lady  have  de  misfortune  to  lose  her  husban,  and  be 
so  happy  to  marry  some  odder  gentilman,  den  we  make 
de  charivary  —  but  'tis  not  so  wid  Mam'selle  Duval  and 
me.  Upon  my  honor  we  have  never  been  marry  before  dis 
time  ! " 

"  Why,  Baptiste,"  said  one,  "  you  certainly  have  been 
married  and  have  a  daughter  grown." 

"  Oh,  excuse  me  sir  !  Madame  Ste.  Marie  is  my  niece. 
I  have  never  been  so  happy  to  be  marry,  until  Mam'selle 
Duval  have  do  me  dis  honneur." 

"  Well,  well !  it 's  all  one.  If  you  have  not  been  mar- 
ried, you  ought  to  have  been,  long  ago  —  and  might  have 
been,  if  you  had  said  the  word." 

"  Ah,  gentilmen,  you  mistake." 

"  No,  no !  there 's  no  mistake  about  it.  Mam'selle 
Jeanette  would  have  had  you  ten  years  ago,  if  you  had 
asked  her." 

"You  flatter  too  much,"  said  Baptiste,  shrugging  his 
shoulders ;  and  finding  that  there  was  no  means  of  avoid- 
ing the  charivary,  he  with  great  good  humour  accepted 
the  serenade,  and  according  to  custom  invited  the  whole 
party  into  his  house. 

I  retired  to  my  former  quarters,  at  the  house  of  an  old 
settler  —  a  little  shrivelled,  facetious  Frenchman,  whom 
I  found  in  his  red  flannel  nightcap,  smoking  his  pipe, 
and  seated  like  Jupiter  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of  his  own 
creating. 

"  Merry  doings  in  the  village !  "  said  I,  after  we  had 
shaken  hands. 

"  Eh,  bien !  Mons.  Baptiste  is  marry  to  Mam'selle 
Jeannette." 

"  I  see  the  boys  are  making  merry  on  the  occasion." 

"  Ah  Sacre"  !  de  dem  boy !  they  have  play  hell  to- 
night." 

"Indeed!   how  so?" 


ii2     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  For  make  dis  charivary  —  dat  is  how  so,  my  friend. 
Dis  come  for  have  d'  Americain  government  to  rule  de 
countrie.  Parbleu  !  they  make  charivary  for  de  old  maid, 
and  de  old  bachelor  !  " 


ALBERT   PIKE 

1809-1891 

ALBERT  PIKE  was  a  pioneer  and  a  free  lance.  From  school- 
teaching  in  old  Newburyport  he  broke  away  in  1831  to  the  new 
Southwest.  Successively  explorer,  editor,  and  lawyer  in  New 
Mexico  and  Arkansas  for  some  fifteen  years,  he  found  time 
also  to  gratify  a  strong  literary  impulse.  On  his  journey  out 
he  sent  to  the  American  Monthly  Magazine  (1831)  both  prose 
and  verse,  and  to  the  same  journal  five  years  later  his  Letters 
from  Arkansas.  Meantime  (1834)  he  had  published  in  Boston 
the  thin  volume  from  which  is  taken  the  following  tale.  Hymns 
to  the  Gods  appeared  in  Blackwood  for  June,  1839  (volume  xlv, 
page  819  ;  see  also  volume  xlvii,  page  354),  with  a  letter  dated 
at  Little  Rock,  August  15,  1838.  (The  American  Cyclopedia 
puts  the  original  publication  of  these  at  Boston,  1831.)  After 
serving  against  Mexico  and  in  the  Confederacy,  he  gave  him- 
self mainly  to  the  practice  of  the  law.  But  he  edited  the 
Memphis  Appeal,  1867-1868,  published  volumes  of  his  verse  in 
1854,  1873,  and  1882,  and  wrote  extensively,  as  an  adept,  on 
freemasonry. 

Though  Pike  has  more  narrative  directness  than  Hall,  he  is 
usually  loose  in  narrative  structure.  Plot  seems  of  smaller  con- 
cern to  him  than  setting.  The  abundance  of  vivid  detail  and 
some  nervous  force  in  the  phrase  make  his  sketches  perma- 
nently convincing  as  description. 


THE   INROAD   OF  THE  NABAJO 

[From  "  Prose  Sketches  and  Poems  written  in  the  Western  Coun- 
try," Boston,  1834.  The  preface  is  dated  Arkansas  Territory,  May, 
1833} 

IT  was  a  keen,  cold  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  Novem- 
ber, when  I  wound  out  of  the  narrow,  rocky  canon  or 
valley,  in  which  I  had  for  some  time  been  travelling,  and 
came  in  sight  of  the  village  of  San  Fernandez,  in  the  valley 
of  Taos.  Above,  below,  and  around  me,  lay  the  sheeted 
snow,  till,  as  the  eye  glanced  upward,  it  was  lost  among  the 
dark  pines  which  covered  the  upper  part  of  the  mountains, 
although  at  the  very  summit,  where  the  pines  were  thinnest, 
it  gleamed  from  among  them  like  a  white  banner  spread 
between  them  and  heaven.  Below  me  on  the  left,  half 
open,  half  frozen,  ran  the  little  clear  stream,  which  gave 
water  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  and  along  the  margin 
of  which  I  had  been  traveling.  On  the  right  and  left  the 
ridges  which  formed  the  dark  and  precipitous  sides  of  the 
canon,  sweeping  apart,  formed  a  spacious  amphitheatre. 
Along  their  sides  extended  a  belt  of  deep,  dull  blue  mist, 
above  and  below  which  was  to  be  seen  the  white  snow, 
and  the  deep  darkness  of  the  pines.  On  the  right,  these 
mountains  swelled  to  a  greater  and  more  precipitous  height, 
till  their  tops  gleamed  in  unsullied  whiteness  over  the  plain 
below.  Still  farther  to  the  right  was  a  broad  opening,  where 
the  mountains  seemed  to  sink  into  the  plain ;  and  afar  off 
in  front  were  the  tall  and  stupendous  mountains  between 
me  and  the  city  of  Santa  Fe\  Directly  in  front  of  me,  with 
the  dull  color  of  its  mud  buildings  contrasting  with  the 
dazzling  whiteness  of  the  snow,  lay  the  little  village,  resem- 
bling an  oriental  town,  with  its  low,  square,  mud-roofed 
"5 


n6     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

houses  and  its  two  square  church  towers,  also  of  mud.  On 
the  path  to  the  village  were  a  few  Mexicans,  wrapped  in 
their  striped  blankets,  and  driving  their  jackasses  heavily 
laden  with  wood  towards  the  village.  Such  was  the  aspect 
of  the  place  at  a  distance.  On  entering  it,  you  found  only 
a  few  dirty,  irregular  lanes,  and  a  quantity  of  mud  houses. 

To  an  American  the  first  sight  of  these  New  Mexican 
villages  is  novel  and  singular.  He  seems  taken  into  a  dif- 
ferent world.  Everything  is  new,  strange,  and  quaint :  the 
men  with  their  pantalones  of  cloth,  gaily  ornamented  with 
lace,  split  up  on  the  outside  of  the  leg  to  the  knee,  and 
covered  at  the  bottom  with  a  broad  strip  of  morocco ;  the 
jacket  of  calico ;  the  botas  of  stamped  and  embroidered 
leather ;  the  zarape  or  blanket  of  striped  red  and  white ; 
the  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  tied 
round  it  in  a  roll ;  or  in  the  lower  class,  the  simple  attire  of 
breeches  of  leather  reaching  only  to  the  knees,  a  shirt  and 
a  zarape ;  the  bonnetless  women,  with  a  silken  scarf  or  a 
red  shawl  over  their  heads ;  and,  added  to  all,  the  continual 
chatter  of  Spanish  about  him  —  all  remind  him  that  he  is 
in  a  strange  land. 

On  the  evening  after  my  arrival  in  the  village  I  went  to 
a  fandango.  I  saw  the  men  and  women  dancing  waltzes 
and  drinking  whiskey  together;  and  in  another  room  I 
saw  the  monti-bank  open.  It  is  a  strange  sight,  a  Span- 
ish fandango.  Well  dressed  women  —  they  call  them  ladies 
—  priests,  thieves,  half-breed  Indians  —  all  spinning  round 
together  in  a  waltz.  Here  a  filthy,  ragged  fellow  with  half 
a  shirt,  a  pair  of  leather  breeches,  long,  dirty  woollen  stock- 
ings, and  Apache  moccasins,  was  whirling  round  with  the 
pretty  wife  of  Pedro  Vigil.  I  was  soon  disgusted;  but 
among  the  graceless  shapes  and  more  graceless  dresses 
at  the  fandango  I  saw  one  young  woman  who  appeared  to 
me  exceedingly  pretty.  She  was  under  the  middle  size, 
slightly  formed;  and,  besides  the  delicate  foot  and  ancle 
and  the  keen  black  eye  common  to  all  the  women  in  that 
country,  she  possessed  a  clear  and  beautiful  complexion, 


ALBERT   PIKE  117 

and  a  modest,  downcast  look  not  often  to  be  met  with 
among  the  New  Mexican  females. 

I  was  informed  to  my  surprise  that  she  had  been  married 
several  years  before,  and  was  now  a  widow.  There  was  an 
air  of  gentle  and  deep  melancholy  in  her  face  which  drew 
my  attention  to  her ;  but  when  one  week  afterward  I  left 
Taos,  and  went  down  to  Santa  FC",  the  pretty  widow  was 
forgotten. 

Among  my  acquaintances  in  Santa  Fe"  was  one  American 

in  particular  by  the  name  of  L .  He  had  been  in 

the  country  several  years,  had  much  influence  there  among 
the  people,  and  was  altogether  a  very  talented  man.  Of 
his  faults,  whatever  they  were,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  It 
was  from  him,  some  time  after  my  arrival,  and  when  the 
widow  had  ceased  almost  to  be  a  thing  of  memory,  that 
I  learned  the  following  particulars  respecting  her  former 
fortunes.  I  give  them  in  L's  own  words  as  nearly  as  I  can, 
and  can  only  say  that  for  the  truth  of  them  he  is  my 
authority.  True  or  not,  such  as  I  received  them  do  I 
present  them  to  my  readers. 

"  You  know,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have  been  in  this  country 
several  years.  Six  or  eight  years  ago  I  was  at  Taos,  upon 
business,  and  was  lodging  in  the  house  of  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, Dick  Taylor.  Early  the  next  morning  I  was  sud- 
denly awakened  by  Dick,  who,  shaking  me  roughly  by  the 
shoulder,  exclaimed,  '  Get  up,  man  —  get  up  —  if  you  wish 
to  see  sport,  and  dress  yourself.'  Half  awake  and  half 
asleep,  I  heard  an  immense  clamor  in  the  street.  Cries, 
yells,  oaths,  and  whoops  resounded  in  every  direction.  I 
knew  it  would  be  useless  to  ask  an  explanation  of  the 
matter  from  the  sententious  Dick ;  and  I  therefore  quietly 
finished  dressing  and,  taking  my  rifle,  followed  him  into 
the  street.  For  a  time  I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  what 
was  the  matter.  Men  were  running  wildly  about,  some 
armed  with  fusees,  with  locks  as  big  as  a  gunbrig,  some 
with  bows  and  arrows,  and  some  with  spears.  Women 
were  scudding  hither  and  thither,  with  their  black  hair 


n8     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

flying,  and  their  naked  feet  shaming  the  ground  by  their 
superior  filth.  Indian  girls  were  to  be  seen  here  and  there, 
with  suppressed  smiles,  and  looks  of  triumph.  Men, 
women,  and  children,  however,  seemed  to  trust  less  in  their 
armor  than  in  the  arm  of  the  Lord  and  of  the  saints. 
They  were  accordingly  earnest  in  calling  upon  Tata  Dios  ! 
Dios  bendito  /  Virgen  purisima  I  and  all  the  saints  of  the 
calendar,  and  above  all,  upon  Nuestra  Senora  de  Gua- 
dalupe,  to  aid,  protect,  and  assist  them.  One  cry,  at  last, 
explained  the  whole  matter,  —  '  Los  malditos  y  picaros  que 
son  los  Nabajos?  The  Nabajos  had  been  robbing  them. 
They  had  entered  the  valley  below,  and  were  sweeping 
it  of  all  the  flocks  and  herds ;  and  this  produced  the  con- 
sternation. You  have  never  seen  any  of  these  Nabajos. 
They  approach  much  nearer  in  character  to  the  Indians  in 
the  south  of  the  Mexican  Republic  than  any  others  in  this 
province.  They  are  whiter;  they  raise  corn;  they  have 
vast  flocks  of  sheep  and  large  herds  of  horses ;  they  make 
blankets,  too,  and  sell  them  to  the  Spaniards.  Their  great 
men  have  a  number  of  servants  under  them ;  and  in  fact 
their  government  is  apparently  patriarchal.  Sometimes 
they  choose  a  captain  over  the  nation ;  but  even  then  they 
obey  him  or  not,  just  as  they  please.  They  live  about  three 
days'  journey  west  of  this,  and  have  about  ten  thousand 
souls  in  the  tribe.  Like  most  other  Indians,  they  have 
their  medicine  men,  who  intercede  for  them  with  the  Great 
Spirit  by  strange  rites  and  ceremonies. 

"  Through  the  tumult  we  proceeded  towards  the  outer 
edge  of  the  town,  whither  all  the  armed  men  seemed  to 
be  hastening.  On  arriving  in  the  street  which  goes  out 
towards  the  canon  of  the  river,  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  place  of  action.  Nothing  was  yet  to  be  seen  out  in 
the  plain,  which  extends  to  the  foot  of  the  hills  and  to  the 
canon.  Some  fifty  Mexicans  had  gathered  there,  mostly 
armed,  and  were  pressing  forward  towards  the  extremity 
of  the  street.  Behind  them  were  a  dozen  Americans  with 
their  rifles,  all  as  cool  as  might  be ;  for  the  men  that  came 


ALBERT   PIKE  119 

through  the  prairie  then  were  all  braves.  Sundry  women 
were  scudding  about,  exhorting  their  husbands  to  fight  well, 
and  praising  'Los  SeTwres  Americanos'  We  had  waited 
perhaps  half  an  hour  when  the  foe  came  in  sight,  sweeping 
in  from  the  west,  and  bearing  towards  the  canon,  driving 
before  them  numerous  herds  and  flocks,  and  consisting 
apparently  of  about  one  hundred  men.  When  they  were 
within  about  half  a  mile  of  us,  they  separated.  One  por- 
tion of  them  remained  with  the  booty,  and  the  other,  all 
mounted,  came  sweeping  down  upon  us.  The  effect  was 
instantaneous  and  almost  magical.  In  a  moment  not  a 
woman  was  to  be  seen  far  or  near;  and  the  heroes  who 
had  been  chattering  and  boasting  in  front  of  the  Americans, 
shrunk  behind  them,  and  left  them  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the 
battle.  We  immediately  extended  ourselves  across  the 
street,  and  waited  the  charge.  The  Indians  made  a  beauti- 
ful appearance  as  they  came  down  upon  us  with  their  fine 
looking  horses,  and  their  shields  ornamented  with  feathers 
and  fur,  and  their  dresses  of  unstained  deer-skin.  At  that 
time  they  knew  nothing  about  the  Americans.  They  sup- 
posed that  their  good  allies,  the  Spaniards,  would  run  as 
they  commonly  do,  that  they  should  have  the  pleasure  of 
frightening  the  village  and  shouting  in  it  and  going  off 
safely.  As  they  neared  us,  each  of  us  raised  his  gun  when 
he  judged  it  proper,  and  fired.  A  dozen  cracks  of  the 
rifle  told  them  the  difference.  Five  or  six  tumbled  out  of 
their  saddles,  and  were  immediately  picked  up  by  their 
comrades,  who  then  turned  their  backs  and  retreated  as 
swiftly  as  they  had  come.  The  Americans,  who  were,  like 
myself,  not  very  eager  to  fight  the  battles  of  the  New 
Mexicans,  loaded  their  guns  with  immense  coolness ;  and 
we  stood  gazing  at  them  as  they  again  gathered  their 
booty  and  prepared  to  move  towards  the  canon.  The 
Mexicans  tried  to  induce  us  to  mount  and  follow ;  but  we, 
or  at  least  I,  was  perfectly  contented.  In  fact,  I  did  not 
care  much  which  whipped.  The  Nabajos  seemed  thus  in 
a  very  good  way  of  going  off  with  their  booty  unhindered, 


120     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

when  suddenly  the  scene  was  altered.  A  considerable 
body,  perhaps  sixty,  of  the  Pueblo  of  Taos,  civilized 
Indians  who  are  Catholics,  and  citizens  of  the  Republic, 
appeared  suddenly  under  the  mountains,  dashing  at  full 
speed  towards  the  mouth  of  the  canon.  They  were  all  fine 
looking  men,  well  mounted,  large,  and  exceedingly  brave. 

[Here  is  omitted  a  digression  upon  the  Pueblos,  which,  though 
very  interesting  historically,  is  irrelevant  to  the  story.] 

"  Upon  seeing  the  Pueblo  of  Taos  between  them  and  the 
mouth  of  the  canon,  the  Nabajos  uttered  a  shrill  yell  of 
defiance,  and  moved  to  meet  them.  Leaving  a  few  men  to 
guard  the  cattle,  the  remainder,  diverging  like  the  opening 
sticks  of  a  fan,  rushed  to  the  attack.  Each  man  shot  his 
arrow  as  he  approached,  till  he  was  within  thirty  or  forty 
yards,  and  then  wheeling,  retreated,  shooting  as  he  went. 
They  were  steadily  received  by  the  Pueblo  with  a  general 
discharge  of  fire-arms  and  arrows  at  every  charge,  and  were 
frustrated  in  every  attempt  at  routing  them.  Several  were 
seen  to  fall  at  every  charge  ;  but  they  were  always  taken  up 
and  borne  to  those  who  were  guarding  the  cattle.  During 
the  contest  several  Mexicans  mounted  and  went  out  from 
the  village  to  join  the  Pueblos,  but  only  two  or  three  ven- 
tured to  do  so ;  the  others  kept  at  a  very  respectful  distance. 
At  length,  finding  the  matter  grow  desperate,  more  men  were 
joined  to  those  who  guarded  the  cattle,  and  they  then  moved 
steadily  towards  the  canon.  The  others,  again  diverging, 
rushed  on  till  they  came  within  fifty  yards,  and  then  con- 
verging again,  charged  boldly  upon  one  point ;  and  as  the 
Pueblo  were  unprepared  for  this  manoeuvre,  they  broke 
through  and  again  charged  back.  Drawing  them  together 
in  this  way  to  oppose,  they  drove  nearly  two  thirds  of  the 
cattle  through  the  line,  goaded  by  arrows  and  frightened  by 
shouts.  Many  of  the  Nabajos,  however,  fell  in  the  melee 
by  the  long  spears  and  quick  arrows  of  the  Pueblo.  In  the 
mean  time  I  had  mounted,  and  approached  within  two  hun- 
dred yards  of  the  scene  of  contest.  I  observed  one  tall  and 


ALBERT   PIKE  121 

good-looking  Spaniard,  of  middle  age,  who  was  particularly 
active  in  the  contest.  He  had  slightly  wounded  a  large, 
athletic  Nabajo  with  his  spear ;  and  I  observed  that  he  was 
continually  followed  by  him.  When  this  large  chief  had 
concluded  that  the  cattle  were  near  enough  to  the  mouth  of 
the  canon  to  be  out  of  danger,  he  gave  a  shrill  cry ;  and 
his  men,  who  were  now  reduced  to  about  sixty,  besides  those 
with  the  cattle,  gathered  simultaneously  between  the  Pueblo 
and  the  canon.  Only  the  chief  remained  behind;  and 
rushing  towards  the  Spaniard  who  had  wounded  him,  he 
grasped  him  with  one  hand  and  raised  him  from  the  saddle 
as  if  he  had  been  a  boy.  Taken  by  surprise,  the  man  made 
no  resistance  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  that  moment  or 
two  sufficed  for  the  horse  of  the  Nabajo  —  a  slightly  made, 
Arabian- looking  animal  —  to  place  him,  with  two  or  three 
bounds,  among  his  own  men.  Then  his  knife  glittered  in 
the  air,  and  I  saw  the  Spaniard's  limbs  contract  and  then 
collapse.  A  moment  more  sufficed  for  him  to  tear  the  scalp 
from  the  head.  He  was  then  tumbled  to  the  ground ;  and 
with  a  general  yell  the  whole  body  rushed  forward,  closely 
pursued  by  the  Pueblo.  In  hurrying  to  the  canon,  the 
Nabajo  lost  several  men  and  more  of  the  cattle ;  but  when 
they  had  once  entered  its  rocky  jaws,  and  the  Pueblo  turned 
back,  still  more  than  half  the  plunder  remained  with  the 
robbers.  Fifteen  Nabajos  only  were  left  dead;  and  the 
remainder  were  borne  off  before  their  comrades.  The 
Pueblos  lost  nearly  one  third  of  their  number. 

"  It  was  this  fight,  sir,  this  inroad  of  the  Nabajos,  which 
brought  me  acquainted  with  the  young  widow  of  whom  we 
have  spoken  before.  She  was  then  an  unmarried  girl  of 
fourteen ;  and  a  very  pretty  girl  too  was  La  Sefiorita  Ana 
Maria  Ortega.  I  need  not  trouble  you  with  descriptions  of 
her ;  for  she  has  saved  me  the  trouble  by  appearing  to  your 
eyes  in  that  sublime  place,  a  fandango  —  when  you  first  saw 
the  charms  of  New  Mexican  beauty,  and  had  your  eyes 
ravished  with  the  melody  and  harmony  of  a  Spanish  waltz 
—  I  beg  Spain's  pardon  —  a  New  Mexican  waltz." 


122     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  Which  waltz,"  said  I,  "  I  heard  the  next  morning 
played  over  a  coffin  at  a  funeral ;  and  in  the  afternoon,  in 
the  procession  of  the  Host." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  common.  Melody,  harmony,  fiddle,  banjo, 
and  all  —  all  is  common  to  all  occasions.  They  have  but 
little  music,  and  they  are  right  in  being  economical  with  it  ; 
and  the  presence  of  the  priest  sanctifies  anything.  You 
know  the  people  of  Taos?  " 

"  Yes.  The  people  were  afraid  to  get  drunk  on  my  first 
fandango  night.  I  was  astonished  to  find  them  so  sober. 
The  priest  was  there ;  and  they  feared  to  get  drunk  until  he 
had  done  so.  That  event  took  place  about  eleven  at  night, 
and  then  aguadiente  was  in  demand." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say.  That  same  priest  once  asked  me  if 
England  was  a  province  or  a  state.  I  told  him  it  was  a 
province.  He  reads  Voltaire's  Philosophical  Dictionary, 
and  takes  the  old  infidel  to  be  an  excellent  Christian.  Ana 
Maria  was  his  god-daughter,  I  think,  or  some  such  matter ; 
and  I  became  acquainted  with  her  in  that  way.  He  wanted 
me  to  marry  her.  She  knew  nothing  of  it,  though ;  but  I 
backed  out.  I  did  not  mind  the  marrying  so  much  as  the 
baptism  and  the  citizenship.  I  don't  exchange  my  country 
for  Mexico,  or  the  name  American  for  that  of  Mexican. 
Ana  was  in  truth  not  a  girl  to  be  slighted.  She  was  pretty 
and  rich  and  sensible.  Her  room  was  the  best  furnished 
mud  apartment  in  Taos.  Her  zarapes  were  of  the  best 
texture,  some  of  them  even  from  Chihuahua ;  and  they  were 
piled  showily  around  the  room.  The  roses  skewered  upon 
the  wall  were  of  red  silk ;  and  the  santos  and  other  images 
had  been  brought  from  Mexico.  There  were  some  half 
dozen  of  looking-glasses,  too,  all  out  of  reach,  and  various 
other  adornments  common  to  great  apartments.  The  medal 
which  she  wore  round  her  neck,  with  a  cross-looking  San 
Pablo  upon  it,  was  of  beaten  gold,  or  some  other  kind  of 
gold.  She  had  various  dresses  of  calico  and  silk,  all  bought 
at  high  prices  of  the  new  comers ;  and  her  little  fairy  feet 
were  always  adorned  with  shoes.  That  was  a  great  extrava- 


ALBERT   PIKE  123 

gance  in  those  days.  Ana  Maria  had  no  mother  when  I 
first  saw  her ;  and  she  had  transferred  all  her  affection  to 
her  father.  When  the  knife  of  the  Nabajo  made  her  an 
orphan,  I  suppose  she  felt  as  if  her  last  hold  upon  life  were 
gone.  She  appeared  to,  at  least. 

"  Victorino  Alasi  had  been  her  lover,  and  her  favored  one. 
He  had  never  thought  of  any  other  than  Ana  Maria  as  his 
bride,  and  he  had  talked  of  his  love  to  her  a  hundred  times. 
But  there  came  in  a  young  trapper  who  gave  him  cause  to 
tremble  lest  he  should  lose  his  treasure.  Henry  or,  as  he 
was  most  commonly  called,  Hentz  Wilson,  was  a  formidable 
rival.  Ana  knew  not,  herself,  which  to  prefer.  The  long 
friendship  and  love  of  Victorino  were  almost  balanced  by 
the  different  style  of  beauty,  the  odd  manners,  and  the 
name  American,  which  recommended  Hentz.  Her  vanity 
was  flattered  by  the  homage  of  an  American,  and  Victorino 
was  in  danger  of  losing  his  bride.  The  bold,  open  bearing 
pf  Hentz,  and  his  bravery,  as  well  as  his  knowledge,  which, 
though  slight  at  home,  was  wondrous  to  the  simple  New 
Mexicans,  had  recommended  him,  likewise,  to  the  father, 
whose  death  suspended,  for  a  time,  all  operations.  They 
had  each  of  them  made  application  by  letter  (the  common 
custom)  for  the  hand  of  Ana  Maria.  In  the  course  of  a 
fortnight  after  the  inroad  of  the  Nabajo,  each  of  the  lovers 
received,  as  answer,  that  she  had  determined  to  give  her 
hand  to  either  of  them  who  should  kill  the  murderer  of  her 
father.  And  with  this  they  both  were  obliged  to  content 
themselves  for  the  present. 

"  Directly  after  the  inroad,  I  came  down  to  Santa  Fe. 
The  Lieutenant  Colonel  of  the  Province,  Viscara,  was  rais- 
ing a  body  of  men  to  go  out  against  the  Nabajo,  and  repay 
them  for  this  and  other  depredations  lately  committed  upon 
the  people,  and  he  was  urgent  for  me  to  accompany  him  — 
so  much  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  comply  with  his  requests, 
and  promised  to  go.  Troops  were  sent  for  from  below; 
and  in  the  course  of  four  months,  the  expedition  was 
ready,  and  we  set  out  upon  the  Nabajo  campaign.  We 


i24     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

were  a  motley  set.  First  there  was  a  body  of  regular 
troops,  all  armed  with  British  muskets  and  with  lances. 
Here  was  a  grey  coat  and  leathern  pantaloons ;  there,  no 
coat  and  short  breeches.  But  you  have  seen  the  ragged, 
ununiformed  troops  here  in  the  city,  and  I  need  not  de- 
scribe them  to  you.  Next  there  was  a  parcel  of  militia, 
all  mounted,  some  with  lances,  some  with  old  fusees ;  and 
last,  a  body  of  Indians  of  the  different  Pueblos,  with  bows 
and  shields  —  infinitely  the  best  troops  we  had,  as  well  as 
the  bravest  men.  Among  the  militia  of  Taos  I  observed 
the  young  Victorino.  Hentz  had  likewise  volunteered  to 
accompany  the  expedition,  and  lived  with  me  in  the  Gen- 
eral's tent. 

"  It  was  in  the  driest  part  of  the  summer  that  we  left 
Santa  F£,  and  marched  towards  the  country  of  the  Nabajo. 
We  went  out  by  the  way  of  Xemes,  and  then,  crossing  the 
Rio  Puerco,  went  into  the  mountains  of  the  Nabajo.  We 
came  up  with  them,  fought  them,  and  they  fled  before  us, 
driving  their  cattle  and  sheep  with  them  into  a  wide  sand 
desert ;  and  we,  being  now  out  of  provisions,  were  obliged 
to  overtake  them  or  starve.  We  were  two  days  without  a 
drop  of  water,  and  nearly  all  the  animals  gave  out  in  con- 
sequence. On  the  third  day  Viscara,  fifteen  soldiers,  and 
myself  went  ahead  of  the  army  (which,  I  forgot  to  say,  was 
thirteen  hundred  strong).  Viscara  and  his  men  were 
mounted.  I  was  on  foot,  with  no  clothing  except  a  cloth 
round  my  middle,  with  a  lance  in  one  hand,  and  a  rifle  in 
the  other.  That  day  I  think  I  ran  seventy-five  miles,  bare- 
footed, and  through  the  burning  sand." 

"  Viscara  tells  me  that  you  ran  thirty  leagues." 
"  Viscara  is  mistaken,  and  overrates  it.  Just  before  night 
we  came  up  with  a  large  body  of  Nabajos,  and  attacked 
them.  We  took  about  two  thousand  sheep  from  them,  and 
three  hundred  cattle,  and  drove  them  back  that  night  to 
the  army.  The  Nabajos  supposed,  when  we  rushed  on 
them,  that  the  whole  of  our  force  was  at  hand,  and  they 
were  afraid  to  pursue  us.  But  it  is  the  battle  in  which  you 


ALBERT   PIKE  125 

are  most  concerned.  When  we  attacked  the  Nabajo,  they 
were  drawn  up,  partly  on  foot,  and  partly  on  horseback,  in 
the  bed  of  a  little  creek  which  was  dry.  It  was  the  com- 
mon way  of  fighting  —  charge,  fire  and  retreat ;  and  if  you 
have  seen  one  fight  on  horseback,  you  have  seen  all.  I 
observed  particularly  one  Nabajo,  upon  whom  three  Pueblos 
charged,  all  on  foot.  He  shot  two  of  them  down  before 
they  reached  him.  Another  arrow  struck  the  remaining 
one  in  the  belly.  He  still  came  on  with  only  a  tomahawk, 
and  another  arrow  struck  him  in  the  forehead.  Yet  still  he 
braved  his  foe  and  they  were  found  lying  dead  together.  I 
could  have  shot  the  Nabajo  with  great  ease,  at  the  time ; 
for  the  whole  of  this  took  place  within  seventy  yards  of  me. 

"In  the  midst  of  the  battle  I  observed  Victorino  and 
Hentz  standing  together  in  the  front  rank,  seeming  rather 
to  be  spectators  than  men  interested  in  the  fight.  They 
were  both  handsome  men,  but  entirely  different  in  appear- 
ance. Victorino  was  a  dark-eyed,  slender,  agile  young 
Spaniard,  with  a  tread  like  a  tiger-cat,  and  with  all  his 
nerves  indurate  with  toil.  His  face  was  oval,  thin,  and  of 
a  rich  olive,  through  which  the  blood  seemed  ready  to 
break;  and  you  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  better  figure 
for  a  statuary  as  he  stood,  now  and  then  discharging  his 
fusee,  but  commonly  glancing  his  eyes  uneasily  about  from 
one  part  of  the  enemy  to  the  other.  Hentz,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  a  tall  and  well-proportioned  young  fellow,  of 
immense  strength  and  activity,  but  with  little  of  the  cat- 
like quickness  of  his  rival.  His  skin  was  fair  even  to  effemi- 
nacy, and  his  blue  eyes  were  shaded  by  a  profusion  of 
chestnut  hair.  He,  too,  seemed  expecting  some  one  to 
appear  amid  the  enemy ;  for  though  he  now  and  then  fired 
and  reloaded,  it  was  but  seldom,  and  he  spent  more  time 
in  leaning  on  his  long  rifle,  and  gazing  about  among  the 
Nabajos. 

"  On  a  sudden,  a  sharp  yell  was  heard,  and  a  party  of 
Nabajos  came  dashing  down  the  bank  of  the  creek,  all 
mounted,  and  headed  by  the  big  chief  who  had  killed  the 


126     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

father  of  Ana  Maria.  Then  the  apathy  of  the  two  rivals 
was  at  once  thrown  aside.  Hentz  quickly  threw  his  gun 
into  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  examined  the  priming,  and 
again  stood  quietly  watching  the  motions  of  the  chief; 
and  Victorino  did  the  same.  Wheeling  round  several 
times,  and  discharging  a  flight  of  arrows  continually  upon 
us,  this  new  body  of  Nabajo  at  length  bore  down  directly 
toward  Hentz  and  Victorino.  As  the  chief  came  on,  Vic- 
torino raised  his  gun,  took  a  steady,  long  aim,  and  fired. 
Another  moment,  and  the  Nabajo  were  upon  them,  and 
then  retreated  again  like  a  wave  tossing  back  from  the 
shore.  The  chief  still  sat  on  his  horse  as  before ;  another 
yell,  and  they  came  down  again.  When  they  were  within 
about  a  hundred  yards,  Hentz  raised  his  rifle,  took  a  steady, 
quick  aim,  and  fired.  Still  they  came  on ;  the  chief  bent 
down  over  the  saddle-bow,  and  his  horse,  seemingly  fright- 
ened by  the  strange  pressure  of  the  rider,  bore  down  di- 
rectly towards  Hentz,  who  sprang  to  meet  him,  and  caught 
the  bridle ;  the  horse  sprang  to  one  side,  and  the  wounded 
chief  lost  his  balance,  and  fell  upon  the  ground.  The  horse 
dashed  away  through  friend  and  foe,  and  was  out  of  sight 
in  a  moment.  The  Nabajo  rallied  to  save  the  body  of 
their  chief,  and  Viscara  himself  rushed  in  with  me  to  the 
rescue  of  Hentz.  But  the  long  barrel  of  Hentz's  rifle, 
which  he  swayed  with  a  giant's  strength,  the  sword  of 
Viscara,  and  the  keen  knife  of  Victorino,  who  generously 
sprang  in  the  aid  of  his  rival,  would  all  have  failed  in  sav- 
ing the  body,  had  not  a  band  of  the  gallant  Pueblo  attacked 
them  in  the  rear  and  routed  them.  Hentz  immediately  dis- 
patched the  chief,  who  was  by  this  time  half  hidden  by  a 
dozen  Nabajos,  and  immediately  deprived  his  head  of  the 
hair,  which  is  more  valuable  to  an  Indian  than  life. 

"The  Nabajos  sued  for  peace,  and  we  returned  to  Santa 
Fe\  Poor  Victorino,  I  observed,  rode  generally  alone,  and 
had  not  a  word  to  say  to  any  one.  Although  formerly  he 
had  been  the  most  merry  and  humorous,  now  he  seemed 
entirely  buried  in  sorrow.  He  kept  listlessly  along,  looking 


ALBERT   PIKE  127 

neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left,  with  his  bridle 
lying  on  the  neck  of  his  mule.  I  tried  to  comfort  him; 
but  he  answered  me  gloomily,  'Why  should  I  cheer  up? 
What  have  I  to  live  for?  Had  I  lost  her  by  any  fault  of  my 
own,  I  would  not  have  thought  so  hardly  of  it ;  but  by  this 
cursed  old  fusee,  and  because  another  man  can  shoot  better 
than  I  —  Oh  !  sir,  leave  me  to  myself,  I  pray  you,  and 
make  me  no  offers  which  do  me  no  good.  I  think  I  shall 
be  happy  again,  but  it  will  be  in  my  grave,  and  Dios  me 
perdone!  I  care  not  how  soon  I  am  there.' 

"As  I  fell  back  towards  the  rear,  where  I  generally 
marched,  Hentz  rode  up  by  me  and  inquired  what  the  young 
Spaniard  had  said.  I  repeated  it  to  him.  '  Do  you  think 
he  is  really  that  troubled  ? '  inquired  he.  '  Yes,'  said  I, '  the 
poor  fellow  seems  to  feel  all  he  says.'  Without  a  word, 
Hentz  rode  towards  him,  and  reining  up  by  him,  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  Victorino  looked  fiercely  up,  and 
seemed  inclined  to  resent  it ;  but  Hentz,  without  regarding 
the  glance,  proceeded  with  a  mass  of  immensely  bad  Span- 
ish, which  I  know  not  how  the  poor  fellow  ever  understood. 
'  Here,'  said  he,  '  you  love  Ana  better  than  I  do,  I  know 
—  you  have  known  her  longer,  and  will  feel  her  loss  more ; 
and  after  all,  you  would  have  killed  the  chief  if  you  could 
have  done  it  —  and  you  did  help  me  save  the  body.  Take 
this  bunch  of  stuff/  holding  out  the  hair,  'and  give  me 
your  hand.'  Victorino  did  so,  and  shook  the  offered  hand 
heartily.  Then  taking  the  scalp,  he  deposited  it  in  his  shot- 
pouch,  and  dashing  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  rode  off  towards 
his  comrades  like  a  madman.  So  much  for  the  inroad  of 
the  Nabajos." 

"  But  what  became  of  Victorino  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"  He  married  Ana  Maria  after  she  had  laid  aside  the  luto 
(mourning)  ;  and  two  years  ago  he  died  of  the  small-pox, 
in  the  Snake  country.  Poor  fellow  —  he  was  almost  an 
American." 


PART   II 

THE    PERIOD    OF    THE 
NEW    FORM 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

1804-1864 

FOR  an  estimate  of  Hawthorne  as  a  writer  of  short  stories  see 
pages  12-15  °f  the  Introduction. 


THE  WHITE   OLD   MAID 

[From  "Twice-Told  Tales."     The  story  was  first  published  in 
"  The  New  England  Magazine  "  for  July,  1835] 

THE  moonbeams  came  through  two  deep  and  narrow 
windows,  and  showed  a  spacious  chamber  richly  fur- 
nished in  an  antique  fashion.  From  one  lattice  the  shadow 
of  the  diamond  panes  was  thrown  upon  the  floor;  the 
ghostly  light  through  the  other  slept  upon  the  bed,  falling 
between  the  heavy  silken  curtains  and  illuminating  the  face 
of  a  young  man.  But  how  quietly  the  slumberer  lay  !  how 
pale  his  features !  And  how  like  a  shroud  -the  sheet  was 
wound  about  his  frame  !  Yes,  it  was  a  corpse  in  its  burial- 
clothes. 

Suddenly  the  fixed  features  seemed  to  move  with  dark 
emotion.  Strange  fantasy  !  It  was  but  the  shadow  of  the 
fringed  curtain  waving  betwixt  the  dead  face  and  the  moon- 
light as  the  door  of  the  chamber  opened  and  a  girl  stole 
softly  to  the  bedside.  Was  there  delusion  in  the  moon- 
beams, or  did  her  gesture  and  her  eye  betray  a  gleam  of 
triumph  as  she  bent  over  the  pale  corpse,  pale  as  itself,  and 
pressed  her  living  lips  to  the  cold  ones  of  the  dead?  As 
she  drew  back  from  that  long  kiss  her  features  writhed  as 
if  a  proud  heart  were  fighting  with  its  anguish.  Again  it 
seemed  that  the  features  of  the  corpse  had  moved  respon- 
sive to  her  own.  Still  an  illusion.  The  silken  curtains  had 
waved  a  second  time  betwixt  the  dead  face  and  the  moon- 
light as  another  fair  young  girl  unclosed  the  door  and  glided 
ghostlike  to  the  bedside.  There  the  two  maidens  stood, 
both  beautiful,  with  the  pale  beauty  of  the  dead  between 
'31 


132     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

them.  But  she  who  had  first  entered  was  proud  and  stately, 
and  the  other  a  soft  and  fragile  thing. 

"  Away  ! "  cried  the  lofty  one.  "  Thou  hadst  him  liv- 
ing; the  dead  is  mine." 

"  Thine  !  "  returned  the  other,  shuddering.  "  Well  hast 
thou  spoken.  The  dead  is  thine." 

The  proud  girl  started,  and  stared  into  her  face  with 
a  ghastly  look.  But  a  wild  and  mournful  expression  passed 
across  the  features  of  the  gentle  one,  and,  weak  and  help- 
less, she  sank  down  on  the  bed,  her  head  pillowed  beside 
that  of  the  corpse  and  her  hair  mingling  with  his  dark 
locks.  A  creature  of  hope  and  joy,  the  first  draught  of 
sorrow  had  bewildered  her. 

"  Edith  !  "  1  cried  her  rival. 

Edith  groaned  as  with  a  sudden  compression  of  the 
heart;  and  removing  her  cheek  from  the  dead  youth's 
pillow,  she  stood  upright,  fearfully  encountering  the  eyes 
of  the  lofty  girl. 

"Wilt  thou  betray  me?  "  said  the  latter,  calmly. 

"  Till  the  dead  bid  me  speak  I  will  be  silent,"  answered 
Edith.  "Leave  us  alone  together.  Go  and  live  many 
years,  and  then  return  and  tell  me  of  thy  life.  He  too 
will  be  here.  Then,  if  thou  tellest  of  sufferings  more  than 
death,  we  will  both  forgive  thee." 

"And  what  shall  be  the  token?"  asked  the  proud  girl, 
as  if  her  heart  acknowledged  a  meaning  in  these  wild 
words. 

"  This  lock  of  hair,"  said  Edith,  lifting  one  of  the  dark, 
clustering  curls  that  lay  heavily  on  the  dead  man's  brow. 

The  two  maidens  joined  their  hands  over  the  bosom  of 
the  corpse,  and  appointed  a  day  and  hour  far,  far  in  time 
to  come  for  their  next  meeting  in  that  chamber.  The 
statelier  girl  gave  one  deep  look  at  the  motionless  counte- 
nance and  departed  —  yet  turned  again  and  trembled  ere 
she  closed  the  door,  almost  believing  that  her  dead  lover 
frowned  upon  her.  And  Edith,  too  !  Was  not  her  white 

1  In  the  original  publication  the  name  is  Patience. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE     133 

form  fading  into  the  moonlight?  Scorning  her  own  weak- 
ness, she  went  forth  and  perceived  that  a  negro  slave  was 
waiting  in  the  passage  with  a  wax-light,  which  he  held 
between  her  face  and  his  own,  and  regarded  her,  as  she 
thought,  with  an  ugly  expression  of  merriment.  Lifting  his 
torch  on  high,  the  slave  lighted  her  down  the  staircase  and 
undid  the  portal  of  the  mansion.  The  young  clergyman  of 
the  town  had  just  ascended  the  steps,  and,  bowing  to  the 
lady,  passed  in  without  a  word. 

Years,  many  years,  rolled  on.  The  world  seemed  new 
again,  so  much  older  was  it  grown  since  the  night 
when  those  pale  girls  had  clasped  their  hands  across  the 
bosom  of  the  corpse.  In  the  interval  a  lonely  woman  had 
passed  from  youth  to  extreme  age,  and  was  known  by  all 
the  town  as  the  "  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding- Sheet."  A 
taint  of  insanity  had  affected  her  whole  life,  but  so  quiet, 
sad  and  gentle,  so  utterly  free  from  violence,  that  she  was 
suffered  to  pursue  her  harmless  fantasies  unmolested  by  the 
world,  with  whose  business  or  pleasures  she  had  naught  to 
do.  She  dwelt  alone,  and  never  came  into  the  daylight, 
except  to  follow  funerals.  Whenever  a  corpse  was  borne 
along  the  street,  in  sunshine,  rain  or  snow,  whether  a  pom- 
pous train  of  the  rich  and  proud  thronged  after  it  or  few 
and  humble  were  the  mourners,  behind  them  came  the 
lonely  woman  in  a  long  white  garment  which  the  people 
called  her  shroud.  She  took  no  place  among  the  kindred 
or  the  friends,  but  stood  at  the  door  to  hear  the  funeral 
prayer,  and  walked  in  the  rear  of  the  procession  as  one 
whose  earthly  charge  it  was  to  haunt  the  house  of  mourning, 
and  be  the  shadow  of  affliction,  and  see  that  the  dead  were 
duly  buried.  So  long  had  this  been  her  custom  that  the 
inhabitants  of  the  town  deemed  her  a  part  of  every  funeral, 
as  much  as  the  coffin-pall  or  the  very  corpse  itself,  and 
augured  ill  of  the  sinner's  destiny  unless  the  Old  Maid 
in  the  Winding-Sheet  came  gliding  like  a  ghost  behind. 
Once,  it  is  said,  she  affrighted  a  bridal  party  with  her  pale 
presence,  appearing  suddenly  in  the  illuminated  hall  just  as 


134     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the  priest  was  uniting  a  false  maid  to  a  wealthy  man  before 
her  lover  had  been  dead  a  year.  Evil  was  the  omen  to 
that  marriage  !  Sometimes  she  stole  forth  by  moonlight 
and  visited  the  graves  of  venerable  integrity,  and  wedded 
love,  and  virgin  innocence,  and  every  spot  where  the  ashes 
of  a  kind  and  faithful  heart  were  mouldering.  Over  the 
hillocks  of  those  favored  dead  would  she  stretch  out  her 
arms  with  a  gesture  as  if  she  were  scattering  seeds,  and 
many  believed  that  she  brought  them  from  the  garden  of 
Paradise ;  for  the  graves  which  she  had  visited  were  green 
beneath  the  snow  and  covered  with  sweet  flowers  from 
April  to  November.  Her  blessing  was  better  than  a  holy 
verse  upon  the  tombstone.  Thus  wore  away  her  long,  sad, 
peaceful  and  fantastic  life  till  few  were  so  old  as  she,  and 
the  people  of  later  generations  wondered  how  the  dead 
had  ever  been  buried,  or  mourners  had  endured  their  grief, 
without  the  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding-Sheet. 

Still  years  went  on,  and  still  she  followed  funerals 
and  was  not  yet  summoned  to  her  own  festival  of  death. 
One  afternoon  the  great  street  of  the  town  was  all  alive 
with  business  and  bustle,  though  the  sun  now  gilded  only 
the  upper  half  of  the  church-spire,  having  left  the  house- 
tops and  loftiest  trees  in  shadow.  The  scene  was  cheerful 
and  animated  in  spite  of  the  somber  shade  between  the 
high  brick  buildings.  Here  were  pompous  merchants  in 
white  wigs  and  laced  velvet,  the  bronzed  faces  of  sea- 
captains,  the  foreign  garb  and  air  of  Spanish  Creoles,  and 
the  disdainful  port  of  natives  of  Old  England,  all  con- 
trasted with  the  rough  aspect  of  one  or  two  back-settlers 
negociating  sales  of  timber  from  forests  where  axe  had 
never  sounded.  Sometimes  a  lady  passed,  swelling  roundly 
forth  in  an  embroidered  petticoat,  balancing  her  steps  in 
high-heeled  shoes,  and  courtesying  with  lofty  grace  to  the 
punctilious  obeisances  of  the  gentlemen.  The  life  of  the 
town  seemed  to  have  its  very  centre  not  far  from  an  old 
mansion  that  stood  somewhat  back  from  the  pavement, 
surrounded  by  neglected  grass,  with  a  strange  air  of  loneli- 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE     135 

ness,  rather  deepened  than  dispelled  by  the  throng  so  near 
it.  Its  site  would  have  been  suitably  occupied  by  a  mag- 
nificent Exchange  or  a  brick  block  lettered  all  over  with 
various  signs ;  or  the  large  house  itself  might  have  made 
a  noble  tavern  with  the  "  King's  Arms "  swinging  before 
it,  and  guests  in  every  chamber,  instead  of  the  present 
solitude.  But,  owing  to  some  dispute  about  the  right  of 
inheritance,  the  mansion  had  been  long  without  a  tenant, 
decaying  from  year  to  year  and  throwing  the  stately  gloom 
of  its  shadow  over  the  busiest  part  of  the  town.  Such  was 
the  scene,  and  such  the  time,  when  a  figure  unlike  any  that 
have  been  described  was  observed  at  a  distance  down  the 
street. 

"  I  espy  a  strange  sail  yonder,"  remarked  a  Liverpool 
captain;  "that  woman  in  the  long  white  garment." 

The  sailor  seemed  much  struck  by  the  object,  as  were 
several  others  who  at  the  same  moment  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  figure  that  had  attracted  his  notice.  Almost  imme- 
diately the  various  topics  of  conversation  gave  place  to 
speculations  in  an  undertone  on  this  unwonted  occurrence. 

"Can  there  be  a  funeral  so  late  this  afternoon?"  in- 
quired some. 

They  looked  for  the  signs  of  death  at  every  door  —  the 
sexton,  the  hearse,  the  assemblage  of  black-clad  relatives  — 
all  that  makes  up  the  woeful  pomp  of  funerals.  They  raised 
their  eyes,  also,  to  the  sun-gilt  spire  of  the  church,  and 
wondered  that  no  clang  proceeded  from  its  bell,  which  had 
always  tolled  till  now  when  this  figure  appeared  in  the  light 
of  day.  But  none  had  heard  that  a  corpse  was  to  be  borne 
to  its  home  that  afternoon,  nor  was  there  any  token  of 
a  funeral  except  the  apparition  of  the  Old  Maid  in  the 
Winding-Sheet. 

"What  may  this  portend?"  asked  each  man  of  his 
neighbor. 

All  smiled  as  they  put  the  question,  yet  with  a  certain 
trouble  in  their  eyes,  as  if  pestilence,  or  some  other  wide 
calamity,  were  prognosticated  by  the  untimely  intrusion 


136     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

among  the  living  of  one  whose  presence  had  always  been 
associated  with  death  and  woe.  What  a  comet  is  to  the 
earth  was  that  sad  woman  to  the  town.  Still  she  moved 
on,  while  the  hum  of  surprise  was  hushed  at  her  approach, 
and  the  proud  and  the  humble  stood  aside  that  her  white 
garment  might  not  wave  against  them.  It  was  a  long, 
loose  robe  of  spotless  purity.  Its  wearer  appeared  very 
old,  pale,  emaciated  and  feeble,  yet  glided  onward  without 
the  unsteady  pace  of  extreme  age.  At  one  point  of  her 
course  a  little  rosy  boy  burst  forth  from  a  door  and  ran 
with  open  arms  towards  the  ghostly  woman,  seeming  to 
expect  a  kiss  from  her  bloodless  lips.  She  made  a  slight 
pause,  fixing  her  eye  upon  him  with  an  expression  of  no 
earthly  sweetness,  so  that  the  child  shivered  and  stood  awe- 
struck rather  than  affrighted  while  the  Old  Maid  passed 
on.  Perhaps  her  garment  might  have  been  polluted  even 
by  an  infant's  touch;  perhaps  her  kiss  would  have  been 
death  to  the  sweet  boy  within  the  year. 

"She  is  but  a  shadow,"  whispered  the  superstitious. 
"The  child  put  forth  his  arms  and  could  not  grasp  her 
robe." 

The  wonder  was  increased  when  the  Old  Maid  passed 
beneath  the  porch  of  the  deserted  mansion,  ascended  the 
moss-covered  steps,  lifted  the  iron  knocker  and  gave  three 
raps.  The  people  could  only  conjecture  that  some  old 
remembrance,  troubling  her  bewildered  brain,  had  impelled 
the  poor  woman  hither  to  visit  the  friends  of  her  youth ; 
all  gone  from  their  home  long  since  and  forever,  unless 
their  ghosts  still  haunted  it  —  fit  company  for  the  Old  Maid 
in  the  Winding-Sheet.  An  elderly  man  approached  the 
steps  and,  reverently  uncovering  his  gray  locks,  essayed 
to  explain  the  matter. 

"None,  madam,"  said  he,  "have  dwelt  in  this  house 
these  fifteen  years  agone  —  no,  not  since  the  death  of  old 
Colonel  Fenwicke,  whose  funeral  you  may  remember  to 
have  followed.  His  heirs,  being  ill-agreed  among  them- 
selves, have  let  the  mansion-house  go  to  ruin." 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE     137 

The  Old  Maid  looked  slowly  round  with  a  slight  gesture 
of  one  hand  and  a  finger  of  the  other  upon  her  lip,  appear- 
ing more  shadow-like  than  ever  in  the  obscurity  of  the 
porch.  But  again  she  lifted  the  hammer,  and  gave,  this 
time,  a  single  rap.  Could  it  be  that  a  footstep  was  now 
heard  coming  down  the  staircase  of  the  old  mansion  which 
all  conceived  to  have  been  so  long  untenanted?  Slowly, 
feebly,  yet  heavily,  like  the  pace  of  an  aged  and  infirm 
person,  the  step  approached,  more  distinct  on  every  down- 
ward stair,  till  it  reached  the  portal.  The  bar  fell  on  the 
inside ;  the  door  was  opened.  One  upward  glance  toward 
the  church-spire,  whence  the  sunshine  had  just  faded,  was 
the  last  that  the  people  saw  of  the  "  Old  Maid  in  the  Wind- 
ing-Sheet." 

"Who  undid  the  door?"  asked  many. 

This  question,  owing  to  the  depth  of  shadow  beneath  the 
porch,  no  one  could  satisfactorily  answer.  Two  or  three 
aged  men,  while  protesting  against  an  inference  which 
might  be  drawn,  affirmed  that  the  person  within  was  a 
negro,  and  bore  a  singular  resemblance  to  old  Caesar,  for- 
merly a  slave  in  the  house,  but  freed  by  death  some  thirty 
years  before. 

"  Her  summons  has  waked  up  a  servant  of  the  old  fam- 
ily," said  one,  half  seriously. 

"  Let  us  wait  here,"  replied  another.  "  More  guests  will 
knock  at  the  door  anon.  But  the  gate  of  the  grave-yard 
should  be  thrown  open." 

Twilight  had  overspread  the  town  before  the  crowd 
began  to  separate,  or  the  comments  on  this  incident  were 
exhausted.  One  after  another  was  wending  his  way  home- 
ward, when  a  coach  —  no  common  spectacle  in  those  days 
—  drove  slowly  into  the  street.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
equipage,  hanging  close  to  the  ground,  with  arms  on  the 
pannels,  a  footman  behind,  and  a  grave,  corpulent  coach- 
man seated  high  in  front  —  the  whole  giving  an  idea  of 
solemn  state  and  dignity.  There  was  something  awful  in 
the  heavy  rumbling  of  the  wheels.  The  coach  rolled  down 


138     AMERICAN    SHORT    STORIES 

the  street,  till,  coming  to  the  gateway  of  the  deserted  man- 
sion, it  drew  up,  and  the  footman  sprang  to  the  ground. 

"Whose  grand  coach  is  this?"  asked  a  very  inquisitive 
body. 

The  footman  made  no  reply,  but  ascended  the  steps  of 
the  old  house,  gave  three  taps  with  the  iron  hammer,  and 
returned  to  open  the  coach  door.  An  old  man  possessed 
of  the  heraldic  lore  so  common  in  that  day  examined  the 
shield  of  arms  on  the  pannel. 

"Azure,  a  lion's  head  erased,  between  three  flower  de 
luces,"  said  he;  then  whispered  the  name  of  the  family 
to  whom  these  bearings  belonged.  The  last  inheritor 
of  its  honors  was  recently  dead,  after  a  long  residence 
amid  the  splendor  of  the  British  court,  where  his  birth 
and  wealth  had  given  him  no  mean  station.  "He  left 
no  child,"  continued  the  herald,  "and  these  arms,  being 
in  a  lozenge,  betoken  that  the  coach  appertains  to  his 
widow." 

Further  disclosures,  perhaps,  might  have  been  made,  had 
not  the  speaker  been  suddenly  struck  dumb  by  the  stern 
eye  of  an  ancient  lady  who  thrust  forth  her  head  from  the 
coach,  preparing  to  descend.  As  she  emerged  the  people 
saw  that  her  dress  was  magnificent,  and  her  figure  dignified 
in  spite  of  age  and  infirmity  —  a  stately  ruin,  but  with  a 
look  at  once  of  pride  and  wretchedness.  Her  strong  and 
rigid  features  had  an  awe  about  them  unlike  that  of  the 
White  Old  Maid,  but  as  of  something  evil.  She  passed 
up  the  steps,  leaning  on  a  gold-headed  cane.  The  door 
swung  open  as  she  ascended  —  and  the  light  of  a  torch 
glittered  on  the  embroidery  of  her  dress  and  gleamed 
on  the  pillars  of  the  porch.  After  a  momentary  pause  —  a 
glance  backwards  —  and  then  a  desperate  effort  —  she  went 
in.  The  decypherer  of  the  coat  of  arms  had  ventured  up 
the  lowest  step,  and,  shrinking  back  immediately,  pale  and 
tremulous,  affirmed  that  the  torch  was  held  by  the  very 
image  of  old  Caesar. 

"But  such  a  hideous  grin,"  added  he,  "was  never  seen 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE     139 

on  the  face  of  mortal  man,  black  or  white  !  It  will  haunt 
me  till  my  dying  day." 

Meantime  the  coach  had  wheeled  round,  with  a  prodi- 
gious clatter  on  the  pavement,  and  rumbled  up  the  street, 
disappearing  in  the  twilight,  while  the  ear  still  tracked  its 
course.  Scarcely  was  it  gone  when  the  people  began  to 
question  whether  the  coach  and  attendants,  the  ancient 
lady,  the  spectre  of  old  Caesar  and  the  Old  Maid  herself, 
were  not  all  a  strangely  combined  delusion  with  some  dark 
purport  in  its  mystery.  The  whole  town  was  astir,  so  that, 
instead  of  dispersing,  the  crowd  continually  increased,  and 
stood  gazing  up  at  the  windows  of  the  mansion,  now  sil- 
vered by  the  brightening  moon.  The  elders,  glad  to  indulge 
the  narrative  propensity  of  age,  told  of  the  long-faded 
splendor  of  the  family,  the  entertainments  they  had  given 
and  the  guests,  the  greatest  of  the  land,  and  even  titled 
and  noble  ones  from  abroad,  who  had  passed  beneath  that 
portal.  These  graphic  reminiscences  seemed  to  call  up  the 
ghosts  of  those  to  whom  they  referred.  So  strong  was  the 
impression  on  some  of  the  more  imaginative  hearers  that 
two  or  three  were  seized  with  trembling  fits  at  one  and  the 
same  moment,  protesting  that  they  had  distinctly  heard 
three  other  raps  of  the  iron  knocker. 

"  Impossible  !  "  exclaimed  others.  "  See  !  The  moon 
shines  beneath  the  porch,  and  shows  every  part  of  it,  ex- 
cept in  the  narrow  shade  of  that  pillar.  There  is  no  one 
there." 

"Did  not  the  door  open?  "  whispered  one  of  these  fan- 
ciful persons. 

"Didst  thou  see  it  too?"  said  his  companion,  in  a 
startled  tone. 

But  the  general  sentiment  was  opposed  to  the  idea  that 
a  third  visitant  had  made  application  at  the  door  of  the 
deserted  house.  A  few,  however,  adhered  to  this  new  mar- 
vel, and  even  declared  that  a  red  gleam  like  that  of  a  torch 
had  shone  through  the  great  front  window,  as  if  the  negro 
were  lighting  a  guest  up  the  staircase.  This,  too,  was  pro- 


i4o     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

nounced  a  mere  fantasy.  But  at  once  the  whole  multitude 
started,  and  each  man  beheld  his  own  terror  painted  in  the 
faces  of  all  the  rest. 

"  What  an  awful  thing  is  this !  "  cried  they. 

A  shriek,  too  fearfully  distinct  for  doubt,  had  been  heard 
within  the  mansion,  breaking  forth  suddenly  and  succeeded 
by  a  deep  stillness,  as  if  a  heart  had  burst  in  giving  it  utter- 
ance. The  people  knew  not  whether  to  fly  from  the  very 
sight  of  the  house,  or  to  rush  trembling  in  and  search  out 
the  strange  mystery.  Amid  their  confusion  and  affright, 
they  were  somewhat  reassured  by  the  appearance  of  their 
clergyman,  a  venerable  patriarch,  and  equally  a  saint,  who 
had  taught  them  and  their  fathers  the  way  to  heaven  for 
more  than  the  space  of  an  ordinary  life-time.  He  was  a 
reverend  figure  with  long  white  hair  upon  his  shoulders, 
a  white  beard  upon  his  breast,  and  a  back  so  bent  over  his 
staff  that  he  seemed  to  be  looking  downward  continually,  as 
if  to  choose  a  proper  grave  for  his  weary  frame.  It  was 
some  time  before  the  good  old  man,  being  deaf  and  of 
impaired  intellect,  could  be  made  to  comprehend  such  por- 
tions of  the  affair  as  were  comprehensible  at  all.  But,  when 
possessed  of  the  facts,  his  energies  assumed  unexpected 
vigor. 

"  Verily,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  it  will  be  fitting  that 
I  enter  the  mansion-house  of  the  worthy  Colonel  Fenwicke, 
lest  any  harm  should  have  befallen  that  true  Christian 
woman  whom  ye  call  the  '  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding- 
Sheet.'  " 

Behold,  then,  the  venerable  clergyman  ascending  the 
steps  of  the  mansion  with  a  torch-bearer  behind  him.  It 
was  the  elderly  man  who  had  spoken  to  the  Old  Maid, 
and  the  same  who  had  afterward  explained  the  shield 
of  arms  and  recognized  the  features  of  the  negro.  Like 
their  predecessors,  they  gave  three  raps  with  the  iron 
hammer. 

"Old  Caesar  cometh  not,"  observed  the  priest.  "Well, 
I  wot  he  no  longer  doth  service  in  this  mansion." 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE     141 

"  Assuredly,  then,  it  was  something  worse  in  old  Caesar's 
likeness  !  "  said  the  other  adventurer. 

"Be  it  as  God  wills,"  answered  the  clergyman.  "See  ! 
my  strength,  though  it  be  much  decayed,  hath  sufficed 
to  open  this  heavy  door.  Let  us  enter  and  pass  up  the 
staircase." 

Here  occurred  a  singular  exemplification  of  the  dreamy 
state  of  a  very  old  man's  mind.  As  they  ascended  the  wide 
flight  of  stairs,  the  aged  clergyman  appeared  to  move  with 
caution,  occasionally  standing  aside,  and  oftener  bending 
his  head,  as  it  were  in  salutation,  thus  practicing  all  the  ges- 
tures of  one  who  makes  his  way  through  a  throng.  Reach- 
ing the  head  of  the  staircase,  he  looked  around  with  sad 
and  solemn  benignity,  laid  aside  his  staff,  bared  his  hoary 
locks,  and  was  evidently  on  the  point  of  commencing  a 
prayer. 

"  Reverend  Sir,"  said  his  attendant,  who  conceived  this 
a  very  suitable  prelude  to  their  further  search,  "  would  it  not 
be  well  that  the  people  join  with  us  in  prayer?  " 

"  Well-a-day  !  "  cried  the  old  clergyman,  staring  strangely 
around  him.  "  Art  thou  here  with  me,  and  none  other  ? 
Verily,  past  times  were  present  to  me,  and  I  deemed  that  I 
was  to  make  a  funeral  prayer,  as  many  a  time  heretofore, 
from  the  head  of  this  staircase.  Of  a  truth,  I  saw  the 
shades  of  many  that  are  gone.  Yea,  I  have  prayed  at  their 
burials,  one  after  another,  and  the  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding- 
Sheet  hath  seen  them  to  their  graves  !  " 

Being  now  more  thoroughly  awake  to  their  present  pur- 
pose, he  took  his  staff  and  struck  forcibly  on  the  floor,  till 
there  came  an  echo  from  each  deserted  chamber,  but  no 
menial  to  answer  their  summons.  They  therefore  walked 
along  the  passage,  and  again  paused,  opposite  to  the  great 
front  window,  through  which  was  seen  the  crowd  in  the 
shadow  and  partial  moonlight  of  the  street  beneath.  On 
their  right  hand  was  the  open  door  of  a  chamber,  and  a 
closed  one  on  their  left.  The  clergyman  pointed  his  cane 
to  the  carved  oak  pannel  of  the  latter. 


i42     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  Within  that  chamber,"  observed  he,  "  a  whole  life-time 
since,  did  I  sit  by  the  death-bed  of  a  goodly  young  man 
who,  being  now  at  the  last  gasp " 

Apparently,  there  was  some  powerful  excitement  in  the 
ideas  which  had  now  flashed  across  his  mind.  He  snatched 
the  torch  from  his  companion's  hand,  and  threw  open  the 
door  with  such  sudden  violence  that  the  flame  was  extin- 
guished, leaving  them  no  other  light  than  the  moonbeams, 
which  fell  through  two  windows  into  the  spacious  chamber. 
It  was  sufficient  to  discover  all  that  could  be  known.  In 
a  high-backed  oaken  arm-chair,  upright,  with  her  hands 
clasped  across  her  breast,  and  her  head  thrown  back,  sat 
the  "  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding-Sheet."  The  stately  dame 
had  fallen  on  her  knees  with  her  forehead  on  the  holy 
knees  of  the  Old  Maid,  one  hand  upon  the  floor  and  the 
other  pressed  convulsively  against  her  heart.  It  clutched 
a  lock  of  hair,  once  sable,  now  discolored  with  a  greenish 
mould.  As  the  priest  and  layman  advanced  into  the 
chamber,  the  Old  Maid's  features  assumed  such  a  sem- 
blance of  shifting  expression  that  they  trusted  to  hear 
the  whole  mystery  explained  by  a  single  word.  But  it 
was  only  the  shadow  of  a  tattered  curtain  waving  betwixt 
the  dead  face  and  the  moonlight. 

"  Both  dead  !  "  said  the  venerable  man.  "  Then  who 
shall  divulge  the  secret  ?  Methinks  it  glimmers  to  and  fro 
in  my  mind  like  the  light  and  shadow  across  the  Old  Maid's 
face.  And  now  't  is  gone  !  " 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

1807  - 1882 

THE  very  large  proportion  of  narrative  poetry  throughout 
Longfellow's  work  suggests  a  native  bent  toward  story.  Outre- 
Mer  (begun  in  parts,  1833  ;  published  entire,  1835)  a*  once 
reminded  his  reviewers  of  Irving's  Tales  of  a  Traveller.  The 
parallel  is  obvious  ;  but  The  Notary  of  PMgueux,  slight  as  is 
its  substance,  is  superior  to  Irving's  typical  form  in  narrative 
compactness. 


THE   NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX 

[From  "  Outre-Mer"  1835} 

Do  not  trust  thy  body  with  a  physician.  He  '11  make  thy  foolish 
bones  go  without  flesh  in  a  fortnight,  and  thy  soul  walk  without  a 
body  in  a  se'nnight  after.  SHIRLEY. 

YOU  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  there  lived  some  years 
ago,  in  the  city  of  Pe'rigueux,  an  honest  notary  public, 
the  descendant  of  a  very  ancient  and  broken-down  family, 
and  the  occupant  of  one  of  those  old  weather-beaten 
tenements  which  remind  you  of  the  times  of  your  great- 
grandfather. He  was  a  man  of  an  unoffending,  quiet  dis- 
position ;  the  father  of  a  family,  though  not  the  head  of  it 
—  for  in  that  family  "  the  hen  overcrowed  the  cock,"  and 
the  neighbors,  when  they  spake  of  the  notary,  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  and  exclaimed,  "  Poor  fellow  !  his  spurs 
want  sharpening."  In  fine  —  you  understand  me,  gentle- 
men —  he  was  hen-pecked. 

Well,  finding  no  peace  at  home,  he  sought  it  elsewhere, 
as  was  very  natural  for  him  to  do ;  and  at  length  discovered 
a  place  of  rest  far  beyond  the  cares  and  clamors  of  domes- 
tic life.  This  was  a  little  cafe  estaminet  a  short  way  out  of 
the  city,  whither  he  repaired  every  evening  to  smoke  his 
pipe,  drink  sugar-water,  and  play  his  favorite  game  of  dom- 
ino. There  he  met  the  boon  companions  he  most  loved, 
heard  all  the  floating  chitchat  of  the  day,  laughed  when  he 
was  in  merry  mood,  found  consolation  when  he  was  sad, 
and  at  all  times  gave  vent  to  his  opinions  without  fear  of 
being  snubbed  short  by  a  flat  contradiction. 

Now  the  notary's  bosom  friend  was  a  dealer  in  claret  and 
cognac,  who  lived  about  a  league  from  the  city,  and  always 
10  145 


146     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

passed  his  evenings  at  the  estaminet.  He  was  a  gross,  cor- 
pulent fellow,  raised  from  a  full-blooded  Gascon  breed,  and 
sired  by  a  comic  actor  of  some  reputation  in  his  way.  He 
was  remarkable  for  nothing  but  his  good-humor,  his  love  of 
cards,  and  a  strong  propensity  to  test  the  quality  of  his  own 
liquors  by  comparing  them  with  those  sold  at  other  places. 

As  evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners,  the  bad 
practices  of  the  wine-dealer  won  insensibly  upon  the  worthy 
notary;  and  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  found  himself 
weaned  from  domino  and  sugar-water,  and  addicted  to 
piquet  and  spiced  wine.  Indeed,  it  not  infrequently  hap- 
pened that,  after  a  long  session  at  the  estaminet,  the  two 
friends  gretf  so  urbane  that  they  would  waste  a  full  half-hour 
at  the  door  in  friendly  dispute  which  should  conduct  the 
other  home. 

Though  this  course  of  life  agreed  well  enough  with  the 
sluggish,  phlegmatic  temperament  of  the  wine-dealer,  it 
soon  began  to  play  the  very  deuce  with  the  more  sensitive 
organization  of  the  notary,  and  finally  put  his  nervous  sys- 
tem completely  out  of  tune.  He  lost  his  appetite,  became 
gaunt  and  haggard,  and  could  get  no  sleep.  Legions  of 
blue-devils  haunted  him  by  day;  and  by  night  strange 
faces  peeped  through  his  bed-curtains,  and  the  night- 
mare snorted  in  his  ear.  The  worse  he  grew,  the  more 
he  smoked  and  tippled ;  and  the  more  he  smoked  and 
tippled — why,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  worse  he  grew. 
His  wife  alternately  stormed,  remonstrated,  entreated ;  but 
all  in  vain.  She  made  the  house  too  hot  for  him  — 
he  retreated  to  the  tavern;  she  broke  his  long-stemmed 
pipes  upon  the  andirons  —  he  substituted  a  short-stemmed 
one,  which,  for  safe  keeping,  he  carried  in  his  waistcoat- 
pocket. 

Thus  the  unhappy  notary  ran  gradually  down  at  the  heel. 
What  with  his  bad  habits  and  his  domestic  grievances,  he 
became  completely  hipped.  He  imagined  that  he  was 
going  to  die,  and  suffered  in  quick  succession  all  the 
diseases  that  ever  beset  mortal  man.  Every  shooting  pain 


HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW      147 

was  an  alarming  symptom  —  every  uneasy  feeling  after 
dinner  a  sure  prognostic  of  some  mortal  disease.  In  vain 
did  his  friends  endeavor  to  reason,  and  then  to  laugh  him 
out  of  his  strange  whims ;  for  when  did  ever  jest  or  reason 
cure  a  sick  imagination  ?  His  only  answer  was,  "  Do  let 
me  alone;  I  know  better  than  you  what  ails  me." 

Well,  gentlemen,  things  were  in  this  state  when,  one 
afternoon  in  December,  as  he  sat  moping  in  his  office, 
wrapped  in  an  overcoat,  with  a  cap  on  his  head  and  his 
feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  furred  slippers,  a  cabriolet  stopped 
at  the  door,  and  a  loud  knocking  without  aroused  him 
from  his  gloomy  revery.  It  was  a  message  from  his  friend 
the  wine-dealer,  who  had  been  suddenly  attacked  with 
a  violent  fever,  and,  growing  worse  and  worse,  had  now 
sent  in  the  greatest  haste  for  the  notary  to  draw  up  his  last 
will  and  testament.  The  case  was  urgent,  and  admitted 
neither  excuse  nor  delay;  and  the  notary,  tying  a  hand- 
kerchief round  his  face,  and  buttoning  up  to  the  chin, 
jumped  into  the  cabriolet,  and  suffered  himself,  though  not 
without  some  dismal  presentiments  and  misgivings  of  heart, 
to  be  driven  to  the  wine-dealer's  house. 

When  he  arrived  he  found  everything  in  the  greatest 
confusion.  On  entering  the  house  he  ran  against  the 
apothecary,  who  was  coming  down  stairs,  with  a  face  as 
long  as  your  arm ;  and  a  few  steps  farther  he  met  the 
housekeeper  —  for  the  wine-dealer  was  an  old  bachelor  — 
running  up  and  down,  and  wringing  her  hands,  for  fear  that 
the  good  man  should  die  without  making  his  will.  He 
soon  reached  the  chamber  of  his  sick  friend,  and  found 
him  tossing  about  in  a  paroxysm  of  fever  and  calling 
aloud  for  a  draught  of  cold  water.  The  notary  shook 
his  head.  He  thought  this  a  fatal  symptom.  For  ten 
years  back  the  wine-dealer  had  been  suffering  under  a 
species  of  hydrophobia,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
left  him. 

When  the  sick  man  saw  who  stood  by  his  bedside,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  exclaimed  : 


148     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

"  Ah !  my  dear  friend  !  have  you  come  at  last  ?  You 
see  it  is  all  over  with  me.  You  have  arrived  just  in  time 
to  draw  up  that  —  that  passport  of  mine.  Ah,  grand 
diable  !  how  hot  it  is  here  !  Water  —  water  —  water  ! 
Will  nobody  give  me  a  drop  of  cold  water?" 

As  the  case  was  an  urgent  one,  the  notary  made  no 
delay  in  getting  his  papers  in  readiness ;  and  in  a  short 
time  the  last  will  and  testament  of  the  wine-dealer  was 
drawn  up  in  due  form,  the  notary  guiding  the  sick  man's 
hand  as  he  scrawled  his  signature  at  the  bottom. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  the  wine-dealer  grew  worse 
and  worse,  and  at  length  became  delirious,  mingling  in  his 
incoherent  ravings  the  phrases  of  the  Credo  and  Pater- 
noster with  the  shibboleth  of  the  dram-shop  and  the  card- 
table. 

"  Take  care  !  take  care  !  There,  now  —  Credo  in  — 
pop  !  ting-a-ling-ling  !  give  me  some  of  that.  Cent-e-dize  ! 
Why,  you  old  publican,  this  wine  is  poisoned  —  I  know 
your  tricks  !  —  Sanctam  ecclesiam  Catholicam  —  Well,  well, 
we  shall  see.  Imbecile  !  to  have  a  tierce-major  and  a 
seven  of  hearts,  and  discard  the  seven  !  By  St.  Anthony, 
capot !  You  are  lurched  —  ha  !  ha  !  I  told  you  so.  I 
knew  very  well  —  there  —  there  —  don't  interrupt  me  — 
Carnis  resurrectionem  et  vitam  eternam  I " 

With  these  words  upon  his  lips  the  poor  wine-dealer 
expired.  Meanwhile  the  notary  sat  cowering  over  the  fire, 
aghast  at  the  fearful  scene  that  was  passing  before  him, 
and  now  and  then  striving  to  keep  up  his  courage  by  a 
glass  of  cognac.  Already  his  fears  were  on  the  alert,  and 
the  idea  of  contagion  flitted  to  and  fro  through  his  mind. 
In  order  to  quiet  these  thoughts  of  evil  import,  he  lighted 
his  pipe,  and  began  to  prepare  for  returning  home.  At  that 
moment  the  apothecary  turned  round  to  him  and  said  : 

"  Dreadful  sickly  time,  this  !  The  disorder  seems  to  be 
spreading." 

"What  disorder?"  exclaimed  the  notary,  with  a  move- 
ment of  surprise. 


HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW      149 

"Two  died  yesterday,  and  three  to-day,"  continued  the 
apothecary,  without  answering  the  question.  "  Very  sickly 
time,  sir  —  very." 

"  But  what  disorder  is  it  ?  What  disease  has  carried  off 
my  friend  here  so  suddenly?  " 

"What  disease?     Why,  scarlet  fever,  to  be  sure." 

"  And  is  it  contagious? " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  I  am  a  dead  man !  "  exclaimed  the  notary, 
putting  his  pipe  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  beginning  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room  in  despair.  "I  am  a  dead 
man  !  Now  don't  deceive  me  —  don't,  will  you  ?  What 
—  what  are  the  symptoms?  " 

"A  sharp  burning  pain  in  the  right  side,"  said  the 
apothecary. 

"  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  come  here  !  " 

In  vain  did  the  housekeeper  and  the  apothecary  strive 
to  pacify  him.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be  reasoned  with. 
He  answered  that  he  knew  his  own  constitution  better  than 
they  did,  and  insisted  upon  going  home  without  delay. 
Unfortunately,  the  vehicle  he  came  in  had  returned  to  the 
city ;  and  the  whole  neighbourhood  was  abed  and  asleep. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  Nothing  in  the  world  but  to  take 
the  apothecary's  horse,  which  stood  hitched  at  the  door, 
patiently  waiting  his  master's  will. 

Well,  gentlemen,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  our  notary 
mounted  this  raw-boned  steed,  and  set  forth  upon  his 
homeward  journey.  The  night  was  cold  and  gusty,  and 
the  wind  set  right  in  his  teeth.  Overhead  the  leaden  clouds 
were  beating  to  and  fro,  and  through  them  the  newly- 
risen  moon  seemed  to  be  tossing  and  drifting  along  like 
a  cock- boat  in  the  surf;  now  swallowed  up  in  a  huge 
billow  of  cloud,  and  now  lifted  upon  its  bosom  and  dashed 
with  silvery  spray.  The  trees  by  the  roadside  groaned  with 
a  sound  of  evil  omen,  and  before  him  lay  three  mortal 
miles,  beset  with  a  thousand  imaginary  perils.  Obedient 
to  the  whip  and  spur,  the  steed  leaped  forward  by  fits  and 


150     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

starts,  now  dashing  away  in  a  tremendous  gallop,  and  now 
relaxing  into  a  long,  hard  trot ;  while  the  rider,  filled  with 
symptoms  of  disease  and  dire  presentiments  of  death,  urged 
him  on,  as  if  he  were  fleeing  before  the  pestilence. 

In  this  way,  by  dint  of  whistling  and  shouting,  and  beat- 
ing right  and  left,  one  mile  of  the  fatal  three  was  safely 
passed.  The  apprehensions  of  the  notary  had  so  far  sub- 
sided that  he  even  suffered  the  poor  horse  to  walk  up-hill ; 
but  these  apprehensions  were  suddenly  revived  again  with 
tenfold  violence  by  a  sharp  pain  in  the  right  side,  which 
seemed  to  pierce  him  like  a  needle. 

"  It  is  upon  me  at  last !  "  groaned  the  fear-stricken  man. 
"  Heaven  be  merciful  to  me,  the  greatest  of  sinners  !  And 
must  I  die  in  a  ditch,  after  all?  He  !  get  up  !  get  up  !  " 

And  away  went  horse  and  rider  at  full  speed  —  hurry- 
scurry  —  up-hill  and  down  —  panting  and  blowing  like 
a  whirlwind.  At  every  leap  the  pain  in  the  rider's  side 
seemed  to  increase.  At  first  it  was  a  little  point  like  the 
prick  of  a  needle  —  then  it  spread  to  the  size  of  a  half- 
franc  piece  —  then  covered  a  piece  as  large  as  the  palm  of 
your  hand.  It  gained  upon  him  fast.  The  poor  man 
groaned  aloud  in  agony ;  faster  and  faster  sped  the  horse 
over  the  frozen  ground  —  farther  and  farther  spread  the 
pain  over  his  side.  To  complete  the  dismal  picture,  the 
storm  commenced  —  snow  mingled  with  rain.  But  snow, 
and  rain,  and  cold  were  naught  to  him ;  for,  though  his 
arms  and  legs  were  frozen  to  icicles,  he  felt  it  not.  The 
fatal  symptom  was  upon  him;  he  was  doomed  to  die  — 
not  of  cold,  but  of  scarlet  fever ! 

At  length,  he  knew  not  how,  more  dead  than  alive,  he 
reached  the  gate  of  the  city.  A  band  of  ill-bred  dogs,  that 
were  serenading  at  a  corner  of  the  street,  seeing  the 
notary  dash  by,  joined  in  the  hue  and  cry,  and  ran  bark- 
ing and  yelping  at  his  heels.  It  was  now  late  at  night, 
and  only  here  and  there  a  solitary  lamp  twinkled  from 
an  upper  story.  But  on  went  the  notary,  down  this  street 
and  up  that,  till  at  last  he  reached  his  own  door.  There 


HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW      151 

was  a  light  in  his  wife's  bed  chamber.  The  good  woman 
came  to  the  window,  alarmed  at  such  a  knocking  and 
howling  and  clattering  at  her  door  so  late  at  night. 

"  Let  me  in  !  let  me  in !  Quick !  quick !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, almost  breathless  from  terror  and  fatigue. 

"  Who  are  you,  that  come  to  disturb  a  lone  woman  at 
this  hour  of  the  night?"  cried  a  sharp  voice  from  above. 
"  Begone  about  your  business,  and  let  quiet  people  sleep." 

"  Oh,  diable,  diable !  Come  down  and  let  me  in  !  I 
am  your  husband.  Don't  you  know  my  voice?  Quick, 
I  beseech  you ;  for  I  am  dying  here  in  the  street ! " 

After  a  few  moments  of  delay  and  a  few  more  words  of 
parley,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  notary  stalked  into 
his  domicil,  pale  and  haggard  in  aspect,  and  as  stiff  and 
straight  as  a  ghost.  Cased  from  head  to  heel  in  an  armor 
of  ice,  as  the  glare  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  him  he  looked  like 
a  knight-errant  mailed  in  steel.  But  in  one  place  his 
armor  was  broken.  On  his  right  side  was  a  circular  spot 
as  large  as  the  crown  of  your  hat,  and  about  as  black  ! 

"  My  dear  wife  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  more  tenderness 
than  he  had  exhibited  for  many  years,  "  reach  me  a  chair. 
My  hours  are  numbered.  I  am  a  dead  man  !  " 

Alarmed  at  these  exclamations,  his  wife  stripped  off  his 
overcoat.  Something  fell  from  beneath  it,  and  was  dashed 
to  pieces  on  the  hearth.  It  was  the  notary's  pipe  !  He 
placed  his  hand  upon  his  side,  and,  lo  !  it  was  bare  to  the 
skin  !  Coat,  waistcoat,  and  linen  were  burnt  through  and 
through,  and  there  was  a  blister  on  his  side  as  large  over 
as  your  head  ! 

The  mystery  was  soon  explained,  symptom  and  all.  The 
notary  had  put  his  pipe  into  his  pocket  without  knocking 
out  the  ashes  !  And  so  my  story  ends. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

1809  - 1849 

FOR  an  appreciation  of  Poe  as  a  short-story  writer  see  pages 
15-23  of  the  Introduction. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE 
OF  USHER 

[First  published  in  Burton's  "  Gentleman's  Magazine  and  American 
Monthly  Review,"  September,  1839] 

Son  coeur  est  un  luth  suspendu  ; 
Sitot  qu'on  le  touche  il  resonne. 

DE  STRANGER. 

DURING  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless  day 
in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung 
oppressively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing  alone, 
on  horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary  tract  of  country ; 
and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades  of  the  evening 
drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy  House  of  Usher. 
I  know  not  how  it  was ;  but,  with  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
building,  a  sense  of  insufferable  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit. 
I  say  insufferable  ;  for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved  by  any  of 
that  half-pleasurable,  because  poetic,  sentiment,  with  which 
the  mind  usually  receives  even  the  sternest  natural  images 
of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon  the  scene 
before  me  —  upon  the  mere  house,  and  the  simple  land- 
scape features  of  the  domain  —  upon  the  bleak  walls  — 
upon  the  vacant  eye-like  windows  —  upon  a  few  rank 
sedges  —  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks  of  decayed  trees  — 
with  an  utter  depression  of  soul  which  I  can  compare  to  no 
earthly  sensation  more  properly  than  to  the  after-dream  of 
the  reveller  upon  opium  —  the  bitter  lapse  into  every-day 
life — the  hideous  dropping  off  of  the  veil.  There  was  an 
iciness,  a  sinking,  a  sickening  of  the  heart — an  unredeemed 
dreariness  of  thought  which  no  goading  of  the  imagination 
155 


156     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

could  torture  into  aught  of  the  sublime.  What  was  it  — 
I  paused  to  think  —  what  was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  House  of  Usher  ?  It  was  a  mys- 
tery all  insoluble;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the  shadowy 
fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered.  I  was 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion  that 
while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations  of  very  simple 
natural  objects  which  have  the  power  of  thus  affecting  us, 
still  the  analysis  of  this  power  lies  among  considerations 
beyond  our  depth.  It  was  possible,  I  reflected,  that  a 
mere  different  arrangement  of  the  particulars  of  the  scene, 
of  the  details  of  the  picture,  would  be  sufficient  to  modify, 
or  perhaps  to  annihilate  its  capacity  for  sorrowful  impres- 
sion; and,  acting  upon  this  idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to 
the  precipitous  brink  of  a  black  and  lurid  tarn  that  lay 
in  unruffled  lustre  by  the  dwelling,  and  gazed  down  —  but 
with  a  shudder  even  more  thrilling  than  before  —  upon 
the  remodelled  and  inverted  images  of  the  gray  sedge, 
and  the  ghastly  tree-stems,  and  the  vacant  and  eye-like 
windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  proposed 
to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  proprietor,  Rode- 
rick Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon  companions  in  boy- 
hood ;  but  many  years  had  elapsed  since  our  last  meeting. 
A  letter,  however,  had  lately  reached  me  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  country  —  a  letter  from  him  —  which,  in  its  wildly 
importunate  nature,  had  admitted  of  no  other  than  a  per- 
sonal reply.  The  MS.  gave  evidence  of  nervous  agitation. 
The  writer  spoke  of  acute  bodily  illness,  of  a  mental  dis- 
order which  oppressed  him,  and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see 
me,  as  his  best,  and  indeed  his  only  personal  friend,  with 
a  view  of  attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of  my  society, 
some  alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the  manner  in 
which  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said  —  it  was  the  ap- 
parent heart  that  went  with  his  request  —  which  allowed  me 
no  room  for  hesitation;  and  I  accordingly  obeyed  forth- 
with what  I  still  considered  a  very  singular  summons. 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  157 

Although,  as  boys,  we  had  been  even  intimate  associates, 
yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His  reserve  had  been 
always  excessive  and  habitual.  I  was  aware,  however,  that 
his  very  ancient  family  had  been  noted,  time  out  of  mind, 
for  a  peculiar  sensibility  of  temperament,  displaying  itself, 
through  long  ages,  in  many  works  of  exalted  art,  and  mani- 
fested, of  late,  in  repeated  deeds  of  munificent,  yet  unob- 
trusive charity,  as  well  as  in  a  passionate  devotion  to  the 
intricacies,  perhaps  even  more  than  to  the  orthodox  and 
easily  recognizable  beauties,  of  musical  science.  I  had 
learned,  too,  the  very  remarkable  fact  that  the  stem  of 
the  Usher  race,  all  time-honored  as  it  was,  had  put  forth, 
at  no  period,  any  enduring  branch;  in  other  words,  that 
the  entire  family  lay  in  the  direct  line  of  descent,  and  had 
always,  with  very  trifling  and  very  temporary  variation,  so 
lain.  It  was  this  deficiency,  I  considered,  while  running 
over  in  thought  the  perfect  keeping  of  the  character  of  the 
premises  with  the  accredited  character  of  the  people,  and 
while  speculating  upon  the  possible  influence  which  the 
one,  in  the  long  lapse  of  centuries,  might  have  exercised 
upon  the  other  —  it  was  this  deficiency,  perhaps,  of  col- 
lateral issue,  and  the  consequent  undeviating  transmission, 
from  sire  to  son,  of  the  patrimony  with  the  name,  which 
had,  at  length,  so  identified  the  two  as  to  merge  the  orig- 
inal title  of  the  estate  in  the  quaint  and  equivocal  appella- 
tion of  the  "  House  of  Usher  "  —  an  appellation  which 
seemed  to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the  peasantry  who  used 
it,  both  the  family  and  the  family  mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat  childish 
experiment  of  looking  down  within  the  tarn  had  been  to 
deepen  the  first  singular  impression.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  consciousness  of  the  rapid  increase  of  my 
superstition  —  for  why  should  I  not  so  term  it  ?  —  served 
mainly  to  accelerate  the  increase  itself.  Such,  I  have  long 
known,  is  the  paradoxical  law  of  all  sentiments  having 
terror  as  a  basis.  And  it  might  have  been  for  this  reason 
only,  that,  when  I  again  uplifted  my  eyes  to  the  house 


158     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

itself,  from  its  image  in  the  pool,  there  grew  in  my  mind  a 
strange  fancy  —  a  fancy  so  ridiculous,  indeed,  that  I  but 
mention  it  to  show  the  vivid  force  of  the  sensations  which 
oppressed  me.  I  had  so  worked  upon  my  imagination  as 
really  to  believe  that  about  the  whole  mansion  and  domain 
there  hung  an  atmosphere  peculiar  to  themselves  and  their 
immediate  vicinity — an  atmosphere  which  had  no  affinity 
with  the  air  of  heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from  the 
decayed  trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the  silent  tarn  —  a 
pestilent  and  mystic  vapor,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly  discernible, 
and  leaden-hued. 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been  a  dream,  I 
scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of  the  building.  Its 
principal  feature  seemed  to  be  that  of  an  excessive  antiquity. 
The  discoloration  of  ages  had  been  great.  Minute  fungi 
overspread  the  whole  exterior,  hanging  hi  a  fine,  tangled 
web-work  from  the  eaves.  Yet  all  this  was  apart  from  any 
extraordinary  dilapidation.  No  portion  of  the  masonry  had 
fallen ;  and  there  appeared  to  be  a  wild  inconsistency  be- 
tween its  still  perfect  adaptation  of  parts,  and  the  crumbling 
condition  of  the  individual  stones.  In  this  there  was  much 
that  reminded  me  of  the  specious  totality  of  old  wood-work 
which  has  rotted  for  years  in  some  neglected  vault,  with  no 
disturbance  from  the  breath  of  the  external  air.  Beyond 
this  indication  of  extensive  decay,  however,  the  fabric  gave 
little  token  of  instability.  Perhaps  the  eye  of  a  scrutiniz- 
ing observer  might  have  discovered  a  barely  perceptible  fis- 
sure, which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building  in 
front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a  zigzag  direction, 
until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters  of  the  tarn. 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  causeway  to  the 
house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse,  and  I  entered 
the  Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A  valet,  of  stealthy  step, 
thence  conducted  me,  in  silence,  through  many  dark  and 
intricate  passages  in  my  progress  to  the  studio  of  his  master. 
Much  that  I  encountered  on  the  way  contributed,  I  know 
not  how,  to  heighten  the  vague  sentiments  of  which  I  have 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  159 

already  spoken.  While  the  objects  around  me  —  while  the 
carvings  of  the  ceilings,  the  sombre  tapestries  of  the  walls, 
the  ebon  blackness  of  the  floors,  and  the  phantasmagoric 
armorial  trophies  which  rattled  as  I  strode,  were  but  matters 
to  which,  or  to  such  as  which,  I  had  been  accustomed  from 
my  infancy  —  while  I  hesitated  not  to  acknowledge  how 
familiar  was  all  this  —  I  still  wondered  to  find  how  unfamil- 
iar were  the  fancies  which  ordinary  images  were  stirring  up. 
On  one  of  the  staircases,  I  met  the  physician  of  the  family. 
His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a  mingled  expression  of 
low  cunning  and  perplexity.  He  accosted  me  with  trepida- 
tion and  passed  on.  The  valet  now  threw  open  a  door  and 
ushered  me  into  the  presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large  and  lofty. 
The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and  pointed,  and  at  so  vast 
a  distance  from  the  black  oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether 
inaccessible  from  within.  Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned 
light  made  their  way  through  the  trelliced  panes,  and  served 
to  render  sufficiently  distinct  the  more  prominent  objects 
around;  the  eye,  however,  struggled  in  vain  to  reach 
the  remoter  angles  of  the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the 
vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung  upon  the 
walls.  The  general  furniture  was  profuse,  comfortless, 
antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books  and  musical  instru- 
ments lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to  give  any  vitality  to 
the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  sorrow. 
An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and  irredeemable  gloom  hung  over 
and  pervaded  all. 

Upon  my  entrance,  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on  which  he 
had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted  me  with  a  viva- 
cious warmth  which  had  much  in  it,  I  at  first  thought,  of  an 
overdone  cordiality  —  of  the  constrained  effort  of  the  ennuye 
man  of  the  world.  A  glance,  however,  at  his  countenance 
convinced  me  of  his  perfect  sincerity.  We  sat  down ;  and 
for  some  moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I  gazed  upon  him 
with  a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of  awe.  Surely,  man  had 
never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in  so  brief  a  period,  as  had 


160     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

Roderick  Usher  !  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  bring 
myself  to  admit  the  identity  of  the  wan  being  before  me 
with  the  companion  of  my  early  boyhood.  Yet  the  charac- 
ter of  his  face  had  been  at  all  times  remarkable.  A  cadav- 
erousness  of  complexion ;  an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous 
beyond  comparison;  lips  somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid, 
but  of  a  surpassingly  beautiful  curve ;  a  nose  of  a  delicate 
Hebrew  model,  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in 
similar  formations ;  a  finely  moulded  chin,  speaking,  in  its 
want  of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energy ;  hair  of  a 
more  than  web-like  softness  and  tenuity;  these  features, 
with  an  inordinate  expansion  above  the  regions  of  the  tem- 
ple, made  up  altogether  a  countenance  not  easily  to  be 
forgotten.  And  now  in  the  mere  exaggeration  of  the  pre- 
vailing character  of  these  features,  and  of  the  expression 
they  were  wont  to  convey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I 
doubted  to  whom  I  spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pallor  of  the 
skin,  and  the  now  miraculous  lustre  of  the  eye,  above  all 
things  startled  and  even  awed  me.  The  silken  hair,  too, 
had  been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in  its  wild 
gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about  the  face, 
I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  arabesque  expres- 
sion with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck  with  an 
incoherence  —  an  inconsistency ;  and  I  soon  found  this  to 
arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile  struggles  to  overcome 
an  habitual  trepidancy,  an  excessive  nervous  agitation. 
For  something  of  this  nature  I  had  indeed  been  prepared, 
no  less  by  his  letter  than  by  reminiscences  of  certain  boyish 
traits,  and  by  conclusions  deduced  from  his  peculiar  physical 
conformation  and  temperament.  His  action  was  alternately 
vivacious  and  sullen.  His  voice  varied  rapidly  from  a  trem- 
ulous indecision  (when  the  animal  spirits  seemed  utterly 
in  abeyance)  to  that  species  of  energetic  concision  —  that 
abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  and  hollow-sounding  enuncia- 
tion —  that  leaden,  self-balanced  and  perfectly  modulated 
guttural  utterance,  which  may  be  observed  in  the  lost  drunk- 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  161 

ard,  or  the  irreclaimable  eater  of  opium,  during  the  periods 
of  his  most  intense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit,  of 
his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace  he  expected 
me  to  afford  him.  He  entered,  at  some  length,  into  what 
he  conceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his  malady.  It  was,  he 
said,  a  constitutional  and  a  family  evil,  and  one  for  which 
he  despaired  to  find  a  remedy  —  a  mere  nervous  affection, 
he  immediately  added,  which  would  undoubtedly  soon  pass 
off.  It  displayed  itself  in  a  host  of  unnatural  sensations. 
Some  of  these,  as  he  detailed  them,  interested  and  bewil- 
dered me ;  although,  perhaps,  the  terms  and  the  general 
manner  of  the  narration  had  their  weight.  He  suffered 
much  from  a  morbid  acuteness  of  the  senses.  The  most 
insipid  food  was  alone  endurable  ;  he  could  wear  only  gar- 
ments of  certain  texture ;  the  odors  of  all  flowers  were 
oppressive ;  his  eyes  were  tortured  by  even  a  faint  light ; 
and  there  were  but  peculiar  sounds,  and  these  from  stringed 
instruments,  which  did  not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a  bounden 
slave.  "  I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  "  I  must  perish  in  this 
deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not  otherwise,  shall  I  be 
lost.  I  dread  the  events  of  the  future,  not  in  themselves, 
but  in  their  results.  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  any,  even 
the  most  trivial,  incident,  which  may  operate  upon  this  in- 
tolerable agitation  of  soul.  I  have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence 
of  danger,  except  in  its  absolute  effect  —  in  terror.  In  this 
unnerved  —  in  this  pitiable  condition  —  I  feel  that  the 
period  will  sooner  or  later  arrive  when  I  must  abandon  life 
and  reason  together,  in  some  struggle  with  the  grim  phan- 
tasm, FEAR." 

I  learned,  moreover,  at  intervals,  and  through  broken  and 
equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature  of  his  mental  con- 
dition. He  was  enchained  by  certain  superstitious  impres- 
sions in  regard  to  the  dwelling  which  he  tenanted,  and 
whence,  for  many  years,  he  had  never  ventured  forth  — 
in  regard  to  an  influence  whose  supposititious  force  was 


162     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

conveyed  in  terms  too  shadowy  here  to  be  restated  —  an 
influence  which  some  peculiarities  in  the  mere  form  and 
substance  of  his  family  mansion,  had,  by  dint  of  long  suffer- 
ance, he  said,  obtained  over  his  spirit  —  an  effect  which 
the  physique  of  the  gray  walls  and  turrets,  and  of  the  dim 
tarn  into  which  they  all  looked  down,  had,  at  length, 
brought  about  upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation,  that 
much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted  him  could 
be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and  far  more  palpable  origin 
—  to  the  severe  and  long-continued  illness  —  indeed  to 
the  evidently  approaching  dissolution  —  of  a  tenderly  be- 
loved sister,  his  sole  companion  for  long  years,  his  last  and 
only  relative  on  earth.  "  Her  decease,"  he  said,  with  a 
bitterness  which  I  can  never  forget,  "  would  leave  him  (him 
the  hopeless  and  the  frail)  the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of 
the  Ushers."  While  he  spoke,  the  lady  Madeline  (for  so 
was  she  called)  passed  slowly  through  a  remote  portion  of 
the  apartment,  and,  without  having  noticed  my  presence, 
disappeared.  I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonishment 
not  unmingled  with  dread ; 1  and  yet  I  found  it  impossible  to 
account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensation  of  stupor  oppressed 
me,  as  my  eyes  followed  her  retreating  steps.  When  a  door, 
at  length,  closed  upon  her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively 
and  eagerly  the  countenance  of  the  brother;  but  he  had 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only  perceive  that 
a  far  more  than  ordinary  wanness  had  overspread  the  ema- 
ciated fingers  through  which  trickled  many  passionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baffled  the 
skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy,  a  gradual  wasting 
away  of  the  person,  and  frequent  although  transient  affec- 
tions of  a  partially  cataleptical  character,  were  the  unusual 

[*  "In  place  of  this  clause  the  first  edition  has  :  "  Her  figure, 
her  air,  her  features,  —  all,  in  their  very  minutest  development 
were  those  —  were  identically  (I  can  use  no  other  sufficient 
term)  were  identically  those  of  the  Roderick  Usher  who  sat 
beside  me.  A  feeling  of  stupor,"  etc.] 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  163 

diagnosis.  Hitherto  she  had  steadily  borne  up  against  the 
pressure  of  her  malady,  and  had  not  betaken  herself  finally 
to  bed ;  but,  on  the  closing  in  of  the  evening  of  my  arrival 
at  the  house,  she  succumbed  (as  her  brother  told  me  at 
night  with  inexpressible  agitation)  to  the  prostrating  power 
of  the  destroyer;  and  I  learned  that  the  glimpse  I  had 
obtained  of  her  person  would  thus  probably  be  the  last  I 
should  obtain  —  that  the  lady,  at  least  while  living,  would 
be  seen  by  me  no  more. 

For  several  days  ensuing  her  name  was  unmentioned  by 
either  Usher  or  myself ;  and  during  this  period  I  was  busied 
in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate  the  melancholy  of  my 
friend.  We  painted  and  read  together ;  or  I  listened,  as 
if  in  a  dream,  to  the  wild  improvisations  of  his  speaking 
guitar.  And  thus,  as  a  closer  and  still  closer  intimacy  ad- 
mitted me  more  unreservedly  into  the  recesses  of  his  spirit, 
the  more  bitterly  did  I  perceive  the  futility  of  all  attempt 
at  cheering  a  mind  from  which  darkness,  as  if  an  inherent 
positive  quality,  poured  forth  upon  all  objects  of  the  moral 
and  physical  universe,  in  one  unceasing  radiation  of  gloom. 
I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many  solemn 
hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of  the  House  of 
Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  attempt  to  convey  an  idea 
of  the  exact  character  of  the  studies,  or  of  the  occupations 
in  which  he  involved  me,  or  led  me  the  way.  An  excited 
and  highly  distempered  ideality  threw  a  sulphurous  lustre 
over  all.  His  long  improvised  dirges  will  ring  forever  in 
my  ears.  Among  other  things,  I  hold  painfully  in  mind  a 
certain  singular  perversion  and  amplification  of  the  wild  air 
of  the  last  waltz  of  Von  Weber.  From  the  paintings  over 
which  his  elaborate  fancy  brooded,  and  which  grew,  touch 
by  touch,  into  vaguenesses  at  which  I  shuddered  the  more 
thrillingly  because  I  shuddered  knowing  not  why ;  —  from 
these  paintings  (vivid  as  their  images  now  are  before  me) 
I  would  in  vain  endeavor  to  educe  more  than  a  small  por- 
tion which  should  lie  within  the  compass  of  merely  written 
words.  By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the  nakedness  of  his 


164    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

designs,  he  arrested  and  overawed  attention.  If  ever  mortal 
painted  an  idea,  that  mortal  was  Roderick  Usher.  For  me 
at  least,  in  the  circumstances  then  surrounding  me,  there 
arose  out  of  the  pure  abstractions  which  the  hypochondriac 
contrived  to  throw  upon  his  canvas,  an  intensity  of  intoler- 
able awe,  no  shadow  of  which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  certainly  glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries 
of  Fuseli. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my  friend, 
partaking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  abstraction,  may  be 
shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in  words.  A  small  picture 
presented  the  interior  of  an  immensely  long  and  rectangular 
vault  or  tunnel,  with  low  walls,  smooth,  white,  and  without 
interruption  or  device.  Certain  accessory  points  of  the 
design  served  well  to  convey  the  idea  that  this  excavation 
lay  at  an  exceeding  depth  below  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
No  outlet  was  observed  in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent, 
and  no  torch,  or  other  artificial  source  of  light  was  dis- 
cernible ;  yet  a  flood  of  intense  rays  rolled  throughout,  and 
bathed  the  whole  in  a  ghastly  and  inappropriate  splendor. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  the  auditory 
nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable  to  the  sufferer, 
with  the  exception  of  certain  effects  of  stringed  instruments. 
It  was,  perhaps,  the  narrow  limits  to  which  he  thus  confined 
himself  upon  the  guitar,  which  gave  birth,  in  great  measure, 
to  the  fantastic  character  of  his  performances.  But  the 
fervid  facility  of  his  impromptus  could  not  be  so  accounted 
for.  They  must  have  been,  and  were,  in  the  notes,  as  well 
as  in  the  words  of  his  wild  fantasias  (for  he  not  unfrequently 
accompanied  himself  with  rhymed  verbal  improvisations), 
the  result  of  that  intense  mental  collectedness  and  concen- 
tration to  which  I  have  previously  alluded  as  observable 
only  in  particular  moments  of  the  highest  artificial  excite- 
ment. The  words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have  easily 
remembered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly  impressed 
with  it,  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under  or  mystic  cur- 
rent of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  perceived,  and  for  the 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  165 

first  time,  a  full  consciousness  on  the  part  of  Usher,  of  the 
tottering  of  his  lofty  reason  upon  her  throne.  The  verses, 
which  were  entitled  "  The  Haunted  Palace,"  ran  very  nearly, 
if  not  accurately,  thus  : 

I. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion  — 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

II. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow ; 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

III. 
Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne,  where  sitting 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

IV. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 


i66     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

v. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate  !); 
And,  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

VI. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows,  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  rapid  ghastly  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this  ballad 
led  us  into  a  train  of  thought  wherein  there  became  mani- 
fest an  opinion  of  Usher's  which  I  mention  not  so  much  on 
account  of  its  novelty  (for  other  men l  have  thought  thus) 
as  on  account  of  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  maintained 
it.  This  opinion,  in  its  general  form,  was  that  of  the  sen- 
tience of  all  vegetable  things.  But,  in  his  disordered  fancy, 
the  idea  had  assumed  a  more  daring  character,  and  tres- 
passed, under  certain  conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of 
inorganization.  I  lack  words  to  express  the  full  extent  or 
the  earnest  abandon  of  his  persuasion.  The  belief,  how- 
ever, was  connected  (as  I  have  previously  hinted)  with  the 
gray  stones  of  the  home  of  his  forefathers.  The  conditions 
of  the  sentience  had  been  here,  he  imagined,  fulfilled  in 
the  method  of  collocation  of  these  stones  —  in  the  order 
of  their  arrangement,  as  well  as  in  that  of  the  many  fungi 
which  overspread  them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees  which 
stood  around — above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  endur- 

1  Watson,  Dr.  Percival,  Spallanzani,  and  especially  the  Bishop 
of  Llandaff.  See  Chemical  Essays,  vol.  v. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  167 

ance  of  this  arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in  the 
still  waters  of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence  of  the 
sentience  —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said,  (and  I  here  started  as 
he  spoke),  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  condensation  of  an 
atmosphere  of  their  own  about  the  waters  and  the  walls. 
The  result  was  discoverable,  he  added,  in  that  silent,  yet 
importunate  and  terrible  influence  which  for  centuries  had 
moulded  the  destinies  of  his  family,  and  which  made  him 
what  I  now  saw  him  —  what  he  was.  Such  opinions  need 
no  comment,  and  I  will  make  none. 

Our  books  —  the  books,  which,  for  years,  had  formed  no 
small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid  —  were, 
as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with  this  character 
of  phantasm.  We  pored  together  over  such  works  as  the 
Ververtet  Chartreuse  of  Cresset ;  the  Belphegor  of  Machia- 
velli ;  the  Heaven  and  Hell  of  Swedenborg ;  the  Subter- 
ranean Voyage  of  Nicholas  Klimtn  by  Holberg;  the 
Chiromancy  of  Robert  Flud,  of  Jean  D'Indagin£,  and  of 
De  la  Chambre ;  the  Journey  into  the  Blue  Distance  of 
Tieck ;  and  the  City  of  the  Sun  of  Campanella.  One  favorite 
volume  was  a  small  octavo  edition  of  the  Directorium  In- 
quisitorium,  by  the  Dominican  Eymeric  de  Gironne ;  and 
there  were  passages  in  Pomponius  Mela,  about  the  old 
African  Satyrs  and  CEgipans,  over  which  Usher  would  sit 
dreaming  for  hours.  His  chief  delight,  however,  was  found 
in  the  perusal  of  an  exceedingly  rare  and  curious  book  in 
quarto  Gothic  —  the  manual  of  a  forgotten  church  —  the 
Vigili(z  Mortuorum  secundum  Chorum  Ecclesia  Maguntina. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this  work, 
and  of  its  probable  influence  upon  the  hypochondriac,  when, 
one  evening,  having  informed  me  abruptly  that  the  lady 
Madeline  was  no  more,  he  stated  his  intention  of  preserving 
her  corpse  for  a  fortnight  (previously  to  its  final  interment) 
in  one  of  the  numerous  vaults  within  the  main  walls  of  the 
building.  The  worldly  reason,  however,  assigned  for  this 
singular  proceeding  was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty 
to  dispute.  The  brother  had  been  led  to  his  resolution,  so 


i68     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

he  told  me,  by  consideration  of  the  unusual  character  of 
the  malady  of  the  deceased,  of  certain  obtrusive  and  eager 
inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  medical  men,  and  of  the  remote 
and  exposed  situation  of  the  burial-ground  of  the  family.  I 
will  not  deny  that  when  I  called  to  mind  the  sinister  counte- 
nance of  the  person  whom  I  met  upon  the  staircase,  on  the 
day  of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no  desire  to  oppose 
what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless,  and  by  no  means 
an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him  in  the 
arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment.  The  body 
having  been  encoffined,  we  two  alone  bore  it  to  its  rest. 
The  vault  in  which  we  placed  it  (and  which  had  been  so 
long  unopened  that  our  torches,  half  smothered  in  its  op- 
pressive atmosphere,  gave  us  little  opportunity  for  investi- 
gation) was  small,  damp,  and  entirely  without  means  of 
admission  for  light ;  lying,  at  great  depth,  immediately  be- 
neath that  portion  of  the  building  in  which  was  my  own 
sleeping  apartment.  It  had  been  used,  apparently,  in  remote 
feudal  times,  for  the  worst  purposes  of  a  donjon-keep,  and, 
in  later  days,  as  a  place  of  deposit  for  powder,  or  some  other 
highly  combustible  substance,  as  a  portion  of  its  floor,  and 
the  whole  interior  of  a  long  archway  through  which  we 
reached  it,  were  carefully  sheathed  with  copper.  The  door, 
of  massive  iron,  had  been,  also,  similarly  protected.  Its 
immense  weight  caused  an  unusually  sharp  grating  sound, 
as  it  moved  upon  its  hinges. 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  tressels 
within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned  aside  the 
yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  looked  upon  the  face  of 
the  tenant.  A  striking  similitude  between  the  brother  and 
sister  now  first  arrested  my  attention ;  and  Usher,  divining, 
perhaps,  my  thoughts,  murmured  out  some  few  words  from 
which  I  learned  that  the  deceased  and  himself  had  been 
twins,  and  that  sympathies  of  a  scarcely  intelligible  nature 
had  always  existed  between  them.  Our  glances,  however, 
rested  not  long  upon  the  dead  —  for  we  could  not  regard  her 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  169 

unawed.  The  disease  which  had  thus  entombed  the  lady  in 
the  maturity  of  youth,  had  left,  as  usual  in  all  maladies  of  a 
strictly  cataleptical  character,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush 
upon  the  bosom  and  the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  linger- 
ing smile  upon  the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We 
replaced  and  screwed  down  the  lid,  and,  having  secured  the 
door  of  iron,  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  the  scarcely  less 
gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  portion  of  the  house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed,  an 
observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the  mental 
disorder  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  manner  had  vanished. 
His  ordinary  occupations  were  neglected  or  forgotten.  He 
roamed  from  chamber  to  chamber  with  hurried,  unequal,  and 
objectless  step.  The  pallor  of  his  countenance  had  assumed, 
if  possible,  a  more  ghastly  hue  —  but  the  luminousness  of  his 
eye  had  utterly  gone  out.  The  once  occasional  huskiness  of 
his  tone  was  heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremulous  quaver,  as  if 
of  extreme  terror,  habitually  characterized  his  utterance. 
There  were  times,  indeed,  when  I  thought  his  unceasingly 
agitated  mind  was  laboring  with  some  oppressive  secret,  to 
divulge  which  he  struggled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At 
times,  again,  I  was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere  inex- 
plicable vagaries  of  madness ;  for  I  beheld  him  gazing  upon 
vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of  the  profoundest 
attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  imaginary  sound.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  his  condition  terrified  —  that  it  infected  me. 
I  felt  creeping  upon  me,  by  slow  yet  certain  degrees,  the 
wild  influence  of  his  own  fantastic  yet  impressive  supersti- 
tions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the  night  of 
the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing  of  the  lady  Made- 
line within  the  donjon,  that  I  experienced  the  full  power  of 
such  feelings.  Sleep  came  not  near  my  couch,  while  the 
hours  waned  and  waned  away.  I  struggled  to  reason  off  the 
nervousness  which  had  dominion  over  me.  I  endeavored 
to  believe  that  much,  if  not  all  of  what  I  felt,  was  due  to  the 
bewildering  influence  of  the  gloomy  furniture  of  the  room  — 


i yo     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

of  the  dark  and  tattered  draperies,  which,  tortured  into  mo- 
tion by  the  breath  of  a  rising  tempest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and 
fro  upon  the  walls,  and  rustled  uneasily  about  the  decora- 
tions of  the  bed.  But  my  efforts  were  fruitless.  An  irre- 
pressible tremor  gradually  pervaded  my  frame ;  and,  at 
length,  there  sat  upon  my  very  heart  an  incubus  of  utterly 
causeless  alarm.  Shaking  this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a  struggle, 
I  uplifted  myself  upon  the  pillows,  and,  peering  earnestly 
within  the  intense  darkness  of  the  chamber,  harkened  —  I 
know  not  why,  except  that  an  instinctive  spirit  prompted 
me  —  to  certain  low  and  indefinite  sounds  which  came, 
through  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  at  long  intervals,  I  knew 
not  whence.  Overpowered  by  an  intense  sentiment  of 
horror,  unaccountable  yet  unendurable,  I  threw  on  my 
clothes  with  haste  (for  I  felt  that  I  should  sleep  no  more 
during  the  night),  and  endeavored  to  arouse  myself  from 
the  pitiable  condition  into  which  I  had  fallen,  by  pacing 
rapidly  to  and  fro  through  the  apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when  a  light 
step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  attention.  I 
presently  recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In  an  instant 
afterward  he  rapped,  with  a  gentle  touch,  at  my  door,  and 
entered,  bearing  a  lamp.  His  countenance  was,  as  usual, 
cadaverously  wan  —  but,  moreover,  there  was  a  species  of 
mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes  —  and  evidently  restrained  hysteria 
in  his  whole  demeanor.  His  air  appalled  me  —  but  anything 
was  preferable  to  the  solitude  which  I  had  so  long  endured, 
and  I  even  welcomed  his  presence  as  a  relief. 

"And  you  have  not  seen  it?"  he  said  abruptly,  after 
having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in  silence  — 
"  you  have  not  then  seen  it  ?  —  but  stay  !  you  shall."  Thus 
speaking,  and  having  carefully  shaded  his  lamp,  he  hurried 
to  one  of  the  casements,  and  threw  it  freely  open  to  the 
storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly  lifted  us 
from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestuous  yet  sternly 
beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singular  in  its  terror  and  its 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  171 

beauty.  A  whirlwind  had  apparently  collected  its  force  in 
our  vicinity ;  for  there  were  frequent  and  violent  alterations 
in  the  direction  of  the  wind ;  and  the  exceeding  density  of 
the  clouds  (which  hung  so  low  as  to  press  upon  the  turrets 
of  the  house)  did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  the  life-like 
velocity  with  which  they  flew  careering  from  all  points 
against  each  other,  without  passing  away  into  the  distance. 
I  say  that  even  their  exceeding  density  did  not  prevent  our 
perceiving  this  —  yet  we  had  no  glimpse  of  the  moon  or 
stars  —  nor  was  there  any  flashing  forth  of  the  lightning.  But 
the  under  surfaces  of  the  huge  masses  of  agitated  vapor,  as 
well  as  all  terrestrial  objects  immediately  around  us,  were 
glowing  in  the  unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and  dis- 
tinctly visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about  and 
enshrouded  the  mansion. 

"  You  must  not  —  you  shall  not  behold  this  !  "  said  I, 
shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him,  with  a  gentle  violence, 
from  the  window  to  a  seat.  "These  appearances,  which 
bewilder  you,  are  merely  electrical  phenomena  not  uncom- 
mon —  or  it  may  be  that  they  have  their  ghastly  origin  in 
the  rank  miasma  of  the  tarn.  Let  us  close  this  casement  — 
the  air  is  chilling  and  dangerous  to  your  frame.  Here  is 
one  of  your  favorite  romances.  I  will  read,  and  you  shall 
listen ;  —  and  so  we  will  pass  away  this  terrible  night 
together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was  the  Mad 
Trist  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning ;  but  I  had  called  it  a  favor- 
ite of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest  than  in  earnest ;  for,  in  truth, 
there  is  little  in  its  uncouth  and  unimaginative  prolixity 
which  could  have  had  interest  for  the  lofty  and  spiritual 
ideality  of  my  friend.  It  was,  however,  the  only  book 
immediately  at  hand ;  and  I  indulged  a  vague  hope  that 
the  excitement  which  now  agitated  the  hypochondriac, 
might  find  relief  (for  the  history  of  mental  disorder  is  full 
of  similar  anomalies)  even  in  the  extremeness  of  the  folly 
which  I  should  read.  Could  I  have  judged,  indeed,  by  the 
wild,  overstrained  air  of  vivacity  with  which  he  harkened,  or 


172     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

apparently  barkened,  to  the  words  of  the  tale,  I  might  well 
have  congratulated  myself  upon  the  success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the  story 
where  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having  sought  in 
vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the  dwelling  of  the  her- 
mit, proceeds  to  make  good  an  entrance  by  force.  Here, 
it  will  be  remembered,  the  words  of  the  narrative  run  thus : 

"  And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty  heart, 
and  who  was  now  mighty  withal,  on  account  of  the  power- 
fulness  of  the  wine  which  he  had  drunken,  waited  no  longer 
to  hold  parley  with  the  hermit,  who,  in  sooth,  was  of  an 
obstinate  and  maliceful  turn ;  but,  feeling  the  rain  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  fearing  the  rising  of  the  tempest,  uplifted 
his  mace  outright,  and,  with  blows,  made  quickly  room  in 
the  plankings  of  the  door  for  his  gauntleted  hand ;  and 
now  pulling  therewith  sturdily,  he  so  cracked,  and  ripped, 
and  tore  all  asunder,  that  the  noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow- 
sounding  wood  alarummed  and  reverberated  throughout  the 
forest." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and  for  a 
moment  paused ;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (although  I  at  once 
concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had  deceived  me)  —  it 
appeared  to  me  that,  from  some  very  remote  portion  of  the 
mansion,  there  came,  indistinctly,  to  my  ears  what  might 
have  been,  in  its  exact  similarity  of  character,  the  echo  (but 
a  stifled  and  dull  one  certainly)  of  the  very  cracking  and 
ripping  sound  which  Sir  Launcelot  had  so  particularly  de- 
scribed. It  was,  beyond  doubt,  the  coincidence  alone 
which  had  arrested  my  attention ;  for,  amid  the  rattling 
of  the  sashes  of  the  casements,  and  the  ordinary  com- 
mingled noises  of  the  still  increasing  storm,  the  sound,  in 
itself,  had  nothing,  surely,  which  should  have  interested  or 
disturbed  me.  I  continued  the  story : 

"  But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering  within 
the  door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  perceive  no  signal 
of  the  maliceful  hermit ;  but,  in  the  stead  thereof,  a  dragon 
of  a  scaly  and  prodigious  demeanor,  and  of  a  fiery  tongue, 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  173 

which  sate  in  guard  before  a  palace  of  gold,  with  a  floor  of 
silver;  and  upon  the  wall  there  hung  a  shield  of  shining 
brass  with  this  legend  enwritten  — 

Who  entereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin ; 
Who  slayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win ; 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the  head 
of  the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave  up  his  pesty 
breath,  with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh,  and  withal  so 
piercing,  that  Ethelred  had  fain  to  close  his  ears  with  his 
hands  against  the  dreadful  noise  of  it,  the  like  whereof  was 
never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feeling  of 
wild  amazement  —  for  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever 
that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear  (although  from 
what  direction  it  proceeded  I  found  it  impossible  to  say)  a 
low  and  apparently  distant,  but  harsh,  protracted,  and  most 
unusual  screaming  or  grating  sound  —  the  exact  counterpart 
of  what  my  fancy  had  already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon's 
unnatural  shriek  as  described  by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed,  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence  of 
this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence,  by  a  thou- 
sand conflicting  sensations,  in  which  wonder  and  extreme 
terror  were  predominant,  I  still  retained  sufficient  presence 
of  mind  to  avoid  exciting,  by  any  observation,  the  sensitive 
nervousness  of  my  companion.  I  was  by  no  means  cer- 
tain that  he  had  noticed  the  sounds  in  question ;  although, 
assuredly,  a  strange  alteration  had,  during  the  last  few  min- 
utes, taken  place  in  his  demeanor.  From  a  position  front- 
ing my  own,  he  had  gradually  brought  round  his  chair,  so 
as  to  sit  with  his  face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber ;  and  thus 
I  could  but  partially  perceive  his  features,  although  I  saw 
that  his  lips  trembled  as  if  he  were  murmuring  inaudibly. 
His  head  had  dropped  upon  his  breast  —  yet  I  knew  that  he 
was  not  asleep,  from  the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye 
as  I  caught  a  glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of  his 
body,  too,  was  at  variance  with  this  idea  —  for  he  rocked 


i74     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

from  side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and  uniform 
sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I  resumed 
the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus  proceeded  : 

"  And  now  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the  terri- 
ble fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the  brazen 
shield,  and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchantment  which 
was  upon  it,  removed  the  carcass  from  out  of  the  way  be- 
fore him,  and  approached  valorously  over  the  silver  pave- 
ment of  the  castle  to  where  the  shield  was  upon  the  wall ; 
which  in  sooth  tarried  not  for  his  full  coming,  but  fell  down 
at  his  feet  upon  the  silver  floor,  with  a  mighty  great  and 
terrible  ringing  sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips,  than  —  as 
if  a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment,  fallen  heav- 
ily upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware  of  a  distinct, 
hollow,  metallic  and  clangorous,  yet  apparently  muffled  re- 
verberation. Completely  unnerved,  I  leaped  to  my  feet; 
but  the  measured  rocking  movement  of  Usher  was  undis- 
turbed. I  rushed  to  the  chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  eyes 
were  bent  fixedly  before  him,  and  throughout  his  whole 
countenance  there  reigned  a  stony  rigidity.  But,  as  I 
placed  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  there  came  a  strong 
shudder  over  his  whole  person ;  a  sickly  smile  quivered 
about  his  lips ;  and  I  saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried, 
and  gibbering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious  of  my  presence. 
Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length  drank  in  the  hideous 
import  of  his  words. 

"  Not  hear  it?  —  yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it.  Long 
—  long  —  long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours,  many  days, 
have  I  heard  it  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  oh  pity  me,  miserable 
wretch  that  I  am  !  —  I  dared  not  —  I  dared  not  speak  ! 
We  have  put  her  living  in  the  tomb  !  Said  I  not  that  my 
senses  were  acute  ?  I  now  tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first 
feeble  movements  in  the  hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them  — 
many,  many  days  ago  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  /  dared  not 
speak  I  And  now  —  to-night  —  Ethelred  —  ha  !  ha  !  —  the 
breaking  of  the  hermit's  door,  and  the  death-cry  of 


:  EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  175 

the  dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield  !  —  say,  rather, 
the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of  the  iron 
hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her  struggles  within  the  cop- 
pered archway  of  the  vault !  Oh  whither  shall  I  fly?  Will 
she  not  be  here  anon?  Is  she  not  hurrying  to  upbraid  me 
for  my  haste?  Have  I  not  heard  her  footstep  on  the  stair? 
Do  I  not  distinguish  that  heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her 
heart?  Madman  !  "  —  here  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet, 
and  shrieked  out  his  syllables,  as  if  in  the  effort  he  were 
giving  up  his  soul  —  "  Madman  !  I  tell  you  that  she  now 
stands  without  the  door  !  " 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance  there 
had  been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell  —  the  huge  antique 
pannels  to  which  the  speaker  pointed  threw  slowly  back, 
upon  the  instant,  their  ponderous  and  ebony  jaws.  It  was 
the  work  of  the  rushing  gust  —  but  then  without  those 
doors  there  did  stand  the  lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of 
the  lady  Madeline  of  Usher.  There  was  blood  upon  her 
white  robes,  and  the  evidence  of  some  bitter  struggle  upon 
every  portion  of  her  emaciated  frame.  For  a  moment  she 
remained  trembling  and  reeling  to  and  fro  upon  the  thresh- 
old —  then,  with  a  low,  moaning  cry,  fell  heavily  inward 
upon  the  person  of  her  brother,  and  in  her  violent  and  now 
final  death-agonies,  bore  him  to  the  floor  a  corpse,  and  a 
victim  to  the  terrors  he  had  anticipated. 

From  that  chamber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I  fled 
aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath  as  I 
found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway.  Suddenly  there 
shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light,  and  I  turned  to  see 
whence  a  gleam  so  unusual  could  have  issued;  for  the 
vast  house  and  its  shadows  were  alone  behind  me.  The 
radiance  was  that  of  the  full,  setting,  and  blood-red  moon, 
which  now  shone  vividly  through  that  once  barely- discerni- 
ble fissure,  of  which  I  have  before  spoken  as  extending 
from  the  roof  of  the  building,  in  a  zigzag  direction,  to  the 
base.  While  I  gazed,  this  fissure  rapidly  widened  —  there 
came  a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind  —  the  entire  orb  of 


176     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my  sight  —  my  brain  reeled 
as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder  —  there  was  a 
long  tumultuous  shouting  sound  like  the  voice  of  a  thou- 
sand waters  —  and  the  deep  and  dank  tarn  at  my  feet 
closed  sullenly  and  silently  over  the  fragments  of  the 
" House  of  Usher" 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

1806  - 1867 

Town  talk  sums  up  much  of  Willis,  both  what  he  was  and 
what  he  wrote.  He  lived  in  the  public  eye ;  he  wrote  of  the 
hour,  for  the  hour.  Naturally,  therefore,  his  work  was  dying 
while  he  was  yet  alive.  Now  he  is  hardly  more  than  a  name. 
Of  Andover  and  Yale  what  little  impress  he  received  was  soon 
rubbed  away  by  a  life  in  which  the  daily  cultivation  of  eminent 
society  was  industriously  made  to  yield  the  daily  crop  of  jour- 
nalism. Indeed,  a  man  so  quick  to  take  every  new  impression 
was  hardly  the  man  to  bear  the  marks  of  many  old  ones.  And 
of  course  the  happy  fluency  that  gave  him  even  in  youth  a  cur- 
rent popularity  could  dispense  with  that  other  and  more  delib- 
erate merit  of  form.  Form,  since  he  had  no  native  sense  of  it, 
and  could  get  on  swimmingly  without  it,  he  never  seriously 
pursued.  Few  story-writers  have  spoiled  so  many  good  plots. 
Not  only  is  he  chatty,  digressive,  episodic,  but  he  rarely  has  any 
clear  solution  and  he  never  culminates.  Such  merit  as  The 
Inlet  of  Peach  Blossoms  has  in  this  aspect  is  quite  exceptional. 
Piquant,  even  vivid  sometimes,  in  sketchy  description,  he  has 
no  composition.  This,  doubtless,  is  why  of  the  hundred  tales 
that  pleased  his  public  not  one  is  read  by  ours. 

Pencillings  by  the  Way  were  supplied  from  Paris  and  London 
in  the  early  '30*3  to  the  New  York  Mirror,  and  in  collective 
form  entertained  both  Britons  and  Americans.  The  character- 
istic title  would  serve  as  well  for  his  subsequent  collections.  A 
list  is  appended  to  the  biography  in  the  American  Men  of  Let- 
ters series  by  Professor  Beers,  who  has  also  edited  a  volume  of 
selections.  A  New  York  editor  for  many  years,  Willis  touched 
at  so  many  points  the  literary  life  of  his  time  that  this  biog- 
raphy has  been  made  admirably  significant  of  its  main  social 
aspects.  In  fact,  the  life  of  Willis  has  more  enduring  interest 
than  his  works. 


THE   INLET   OF  PEACH  BLOSSOMS 

[From  "Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil,'"  1845.  The  story  was 
first  published  between  1840  and  1845,  probably  in  the  "  New  Mirror ' 
of  New  York] 

THE  Emperor  Yuentsoong,  of  the  dynasty  Chow,  was 
the  most  magnificent  of  the  long-descended  succes- 
sion of  Chinese  sovereigns.  On  his  first  accession  to  the 
throne,  his  character  was  so  little  understood,  that  a  con- 
spiracy was  set  on  foot  among  the  yellow-caps,  or  eunuchs, 
to  put  out  his  eyes,  and  place  upon  the  throne  the  rebel 
Szema,  in  whose  warlike  hands,  they  asserted,  the  empire 
would  more  properly  maintain  its  ancient  glory.  The  grav- 
ity and  reserve  which  these  myrmidons  of  the  palace  had 
construed  into  stupidity  and  fear,  soon  assumed  another 
complexion,  however.  The  eunuchs  silently  disappeared ; 
the  mandarins  and  princes  whom  they  had  seduced  from 
their  allegiance  were  made  loyal  subjects  by  a  generous  par- 
don ;  and,  in  a  few  days  after  the  period  fixed  upon  for  the 
consummation  of  the  plot,  Yuentsoong  set  forth  in  complete 
armor  at  the  head  of  his  troops  to  give  battle  to  the  rebel 
in  the  mountains. 

In  Chinese  annals  this  first  enterprise  of  the  youthful 
Yuentsoong  is  recorded  with  great  pomp  and  particularity. 
Szema  was  a  Tartar  prince  of  uncommon  ability,  young,  like 
the  emperor,  and,  during  the  few  last  imbecile  years  of  the 
old  sovereign,  he  had  gathered  strength  in  his  rebellion,  till 
now  he  was  at  the  head  of  ninety  thousand  men,  all  soldiers 
of  repute  and  tried  valor.  The  historian  has,  unfortunately, 
dimmed  the  emperor's  fame  to  European  eyes  by  attributing 
his  wonderful  achievements  in  this  expedition  to  his  supe- 
riority in  arts  of  magic.  As  this  account  of  his  exploits  is 
179 


i8o     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

only  prefatory  to  our  tale,  we  will  simply  give  the  reader  an 
idea  of  the  style  of  the  historian  by  translating  literally  a 
passage  or  two  of  his  description  of  the  battle  :  — 

"  Szema  now  took  refuge  within  a  cleft  of  the  mountain, 
and  Yuentsoong,  upon  his  swift  steed,  outstripping  the  body- 
guard in  his  ardor,  dashed  amid  the  paralyzed  troops  with 
poised  spear,  his  eyes  fixed  only  on  the  rebel.  There  was 
a  silence  of  an  instant,  broken  only  by  the  rattling  hoofs  of 
the  intruder;  and  then,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  waving 
sword,  Szema  uttered  a  fearful  imprecation.  In  a  moment 
the  wind  rushed,  the  air  blackened,  and,  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  a  fallen  rock,  a  large  cloud  enveloped  the  rebel, 
and  innumerable  men  and  horses  issued  out  of  it.  Wings 
flapped  against  the  eyes  of  the  emperor's  horse,  hellish 
noises  screamed  in  his  ears,  and,  completely  beyond  con- 
trol, the  animal  turned  and  fled  back  through  the  narrow 
pass,  bearing  his  imperial  master  safe  into  the  heart  of  his 
army. 

"  Yuentsoong,  that  night,  commanded  some  of  his  most 
expert  soldiers  to  scale  the  beetling  heights  of  the  ravine, 
bearing  upon  their  backs  the  blood  of  swine,  sheep,  and 
dogs,  with  other  impure  things,  and  these  they  were  ordered 
to  shower  upon  the  combatants  at  the  sound  of  the  impe- 
rial clarion.  On  the  following  morning,  Szema  came  forth 
again  to  offer  battle,  with  flags  displayed,  drums  beating, 
and  shouts  of  triumph  and  defiance.  As  on  the  day  pre- 
vious, the  bold  emperor  divided,  in  his  impatience,  rank 
after  rank  of  his  own  soldiery,  and,  followed  closely  by  his 
body-guard,  drove  the  rebel  army  once  more  into  their  fast- 
ness. Szema  sat  upon  his  war-horse  as  before,  intrenched 
amid  his  officers  and  ranks  of  the  tallest  Tartar  spearmen ; 
and,  as  the  emperor  contended  hand  to  hand  with  one  of  the 
opposing  rebels,  the  magic  imprecation  was  again  uttered, 
the  air  again  filled  with  cloudy  horsemen  and  chariots,  and 
the  mountain  shaken  with  discordant  thunder.  Backing 
his  willing  steed,  the  emperor  blew  a  long  sharp  note  upon 
his  silver  clarion,  and,  in  an  instant,  the  sun  broke  through 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS     181 

the  darkness,  and  the  air  seemed  filled  with  paper  men, 
horses  of  straw,  and  phantoms  dissolving  into  smoke. 
Yuentsoong  and  Szema  now  stood  face  to  face,  with  only 
mortal  aid  and  weapons." 

The  historian  goes  on  to  record  that  the  two  armies  sus- 
pended hostilities  at  the  command  of  their  leaders,  and  that, 
the  emperor  and  his  rebel  subject  having  engaged  in  single 
combat,  Yuentsoong  was  victorious,  and  returned  to  his 
capital  with  the  formidable  enemy  whose  life  he  had  spared, 
riding  beside  him  like  a  brother.  The  conqueror's  career, 
for  several  years  after  this,  seems  to  have  been  a  series  of 
exploits  of  personal  valor ;  and  the  Tartar  prince  shared  in 
all  his  dangers  and  pleasures,  his  inseparable  friend.  It  was 
during  this  period  of  romantic  friendship  that  the  events 
occurred  which  have  made  Yuentsoong  one  of  the  idols  of 
Chinese  poetry. 

By  the  side  of  a  lake  in  a  distant  province  of  the  empire, 
stood  one  of  the  imperial  palaces  of  pleasure,  seldom  visited, 
and  almost  in  ruins.  Hither,  in  one  of  his  moody  periods 
of  repose  from  war,  came  the  conqueror  Yuentsoong,  for  the 
first  time  in  years  separated  from  his  faithful  Szema.  In 
disguise,  and  with  only  one  or  two  attendants,  he  established 
himself  in  the  long  silent  halls  of  his  ancestor  Tsinchemong, 
and  with  his  boat  upon  the  lake,  and  his  spear  in  the  forest, 
seemed  to  find  all  the  amusement  of  which  his  melancholy 
was  susceptible.  On  a  certain  day  in  the  latter  part  of  April, 
the  emperor  had  set  his  sail  to  a  fragrant  south  wind,  and, 
reclining  on  the  cushions  of  his  bark,  watched  the  shore  as 
it  softly  and  silently  glided  past,  and,  the  lake  being  entirely 
encircled  by  the  imperial  forest,  he  felt  immersed  in  what 
he  believed  to  be  the  solitude  of  a  deserted  paradise.  After 
skirting  the  fringed  sheet  of  water  in  this  manner  for  several 
hours,  he  suddenly  observed  that  he  had  shot  through  a 
streak  of  peach-blossoms  floating  from  the  shore,  and  at 
the  same  moment  he  became  conscious  that  his  boat  was 
slightly  headed  off  by  a  current  setting  outward.  Putting 
up  his  helm,  he  returned  to  the  spot,  and  beneath  the  droop- 


182     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

ing  branches  of  some  luxuriant  willows,  thus  early  in  leaf, 
he  discovered  the  mouth  of  an  inlet,  which,  but  for  the 
floating  blossoms  it  brought  to  the  lake,  would  have  escaped 
the  notice  of  the  closest  observer.  The  emperor  now  low- 
ered his  sail,  unshipped  the  slender  mast,  and  betook  him  to 
the  oars ;  and,  as  the  current  was  gentle,  and  the  inlet  wider 
within  the  mouth,  he  sped  rapidly  on  through  what  appeared 
to  be  but  a  lovely  and  luxuriant  vale  of  the  forest.  Still, 
those  blushing  betrayers  of  some  flowering  spot  beyond  ex- 
tended like  a  rosy  clew  before  him ;  and  with  impulse  of 
muscles  swelled  and  indurated  in  warlike  exercise,  the  swift 
keel  divided  the  besprent  mirror  winding  temptingly  onward, 
and,  for  a  long  hour,  the  royal  oarsman  untiringly  threaded 
this  sweet  vein  of  the  wilderness. 

Resting  a  moment  on  his  oars  while  the  slender  bark  still 
kept  her  way,  he  turned  his  head  toward  what  seemed  to  be 
an  opening  in  the  forest  on  the  left,  and  in  the  same  instant 
the  boat  ran  head  on,  to  the  shore,  the  inlet  at  this  point 
almost  doubling  on  its  course.  Beyond,  by  the  humming  of 
bees  and  the  singing  of  birds,  there  should  be  a  spot  more 
open  than  the  tangled  wilderness  he  had  passed ;  and,  disen- 
gaging his  prow  from  the  alders,  he  shoved  the  boat  again 
into  the  stream,  and  pulled  round  a  high  rock,  by  which  the 
inlet  seemed  to  have  been  compelled  to  curve  its  channel. 
The  edge  of  a  bright  green  meadow  now  stole  into  the 
perspective,  and,  still  widening  with  his  approach,  disclosed 
a  slightly  rising  terrace  clustered  with  shrubs,  and  studded 
here  and  there  with  vases ;  and  farther  on,  upon  the  same 
side  of  the  stream,  a  skirting  edge  of  peach-trees  loaded 
with  the  gay  blossoms  which  had  guided  him  thither. 

Astonished  at  these  signs  of  habitation  in  what  was  well 
understood  to  be  a  privileged  wilderness,  Yuentsoong  kept 
his  boat  in  mid-stream,  and  with  his  eyes  vigilantly  on  the 
alert,  slowly  made  headway  against  the  current.  A  few 
strokes  with  his  oars,  however,  traced  another  curve  of  the 
inlet,  and  brought  into  view  a  grove  of  ancient  trees  scat- 
tered over  a  gently  ascending  lawn,  beyond  which,  hidden 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS     183 

from  the  river  till  now  by  the  projecting  shoulder  of  a  mound, 
lay  a  small  pavilion  with  gilded  pillars  glittering  like  fairy 
work  in  the  sun.  The  emperor  fastened  his  boat  to  a  tree 
leaning  over  the  water,  and  with  his  short  spear  in  his  hand, 
bounded  upon  the  shore,  and  took  his  way  toward  the  shin- 
ing structure,  his  heart  beating  with  a  feeling  of  wonder  and 
interest  altogether  new.  On  a  nearer  approach,  the  bases 
of  the  pillars  seemed  decayed  by  time,  and  the  gilding 
weather-stained  and  tarnished ;  but  the  trellised  porticoes 
on  the  southern  aspect  were  laden  with  flowering  shrubs  in 
vases  of  porcelain,  and  caged  birds  sang  between  the  pointed 
arches,  and  there  were  manifest  signs  of  luxurious  taste,  ele- 
gance, and  care. 

A  moment  with  an  indefinable  timidity  the  emperor  paused 
before  stepping  from  the  greensward  upon  the  marble  floor 
of  the  pavilion,  and  in  that  moment  a  curtain  was  withdrawn 
from  the  door,  and  a  female,  with  step  suddenly  arrested 
by  the  sight  of  the  stranger,  stood  motionless  before  him. 
Ravished  with  her  extraordinary  beauty,  and  awe-struck  with 
the  suddenness  of  the  apparition  and  the  novelty  of  the  ad- 
venture, the  emperor's  tongue  cleaved  to  his  mouth,  and  ere 
he  could  summon  resolution,  even  for  a  gesture  of  courtesy, 
the  fair  creature  had  fled  within,  and  the  curtain  closed  the 
entrance  as  before. 

Wishing  to  recover  his  composure,  so  strangely  troubled, 
and  taking  it  for  granted  that  some  other  inmate  of  the  hduse 
would  soon  appear,  Yuentsoong  turned  his  steps  aside  to  the 
grove ;  and  with  his  head  bowed,  and  his  spear  in  the  hol- 
low of  his  arm,  tried  to  recall  more  vividly  the  features  of  the 
vision  he  had  seen.  He  had  walked  but  a  few  paces  when 
there  came  toward  him  from  the  upper  skirt  of  the  grove,  a 
man  of  unusual  stature  and  erectness,  with  white  hair  un- 
braidecl  on  his  shoulders,  and  every  sign  of  age  except  in- 
firmity of  step  and  mien.  The  emperor's  habitual  dignity 
had  now  rallied,  and  on  his  first  salutation  the  countenance 
of  the  old  man  softened,  and  he  quickened  his  pace  to  meet 
and  give  him  welcome. 


i84     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"You  are  noble?"  he  said  with  confident  inquiry. 

Yuentsoong  colored  slightly. 

"  I  am,"  he  replied,  "Lew-melin,  a  prince  of  the  empire." 

"And  by  what  accident  here?" 

Yuentsoong  explained  the  clew  of  the  peach-blossoms, 
and  represented  himself  as  exiled  for  a  time  to  the  deserted 
palace  upon  the  lakes. 

"  I  have  a  daughter,"  said  the  old  man  abruptly,  "  who 
has  never  looked  on  human  face  save  mine." 

"  Pardon  me,"  replied  his  visitor,  "  I  have  thoughtlessly 
intruded  on  her  sight,  and  a  face  more  heavenly  fair  "  — 

The  emperor  hesitated,  but  the  old  man  smiled  encourag- 
ingly. 

"  It  is  time,"  he  said,  "  that  I  should  provide  a  younger 
defender  for  my  bright  Teh-leen,  and  Heaven  has  sent  you 
in  the  season  of  peach-blossoms  with  provident  kindness.1 
You  have  frankly  revealed  to  me  your  name  and  rank. 
Before  I  offer  you  the  hospitality  of  my  roof,  I  must  tell 
you  mine.  I  am  Choo-tseen,  the  outlaw,  once  of  your  own 
rank,  and  the  general  of  the  Celestial  army." 

The  emperor  started,  remembering  that  this  celebrated 
rebel  was  the  terror  of  his  father's  throne. 

"You  have  heard  my  history,"  the  old  man  continued. 
"  I  had  been,  before  my  rebellion,  in  charge  of  the  imperial 
palace  on  the  lake.  Anticipating  an  evil  day,  I  secretly 
prepared  this  retreat  for  my  family ;  and  when  my  soldiers 
deserted  me  at  the  battle  of  Ke-chow,  and  a  price  was  set 
upon  my  head,  hither  I  fled  with  my  women  and  children ; 
and  the  last  alive  is  my  beautiful  Teh-leen.  With  this  brief 
outline  of  my  life,  you  are  at  liberty  to  leave  me  as  you  came, 
or  to  enter  my  house  on  the  condition  that  you  become  the 
protector  of  my  child." 

The  emperor  eagerly  turned  toward  the  pavilion,  and,  with 
a  step  as  light  as  his  own,  the  erect  and  stately  outlaw  has- 
tened to  lift  the  curtain  before  him.  Leaving  his  guest  for 

1  The  season  of  peach-blossoms  was  the  only  season  of  mar- 
riage in  ancient  China. 


NATHANIEL   PARKER  WILLIS     185 

a  moment  in  the  outer  apartment,  he  entered  to  an  inner 
chamber  in  search  of  his  daughter,  whom  he  brought,  pant- 
ing with  fear,  and  blushing  with  surprise  and  delight,  to  her 
future  lover  and  protector.  A  portion  of  an  historical  tale 
so  delicate  as  the  description  of  the  heroine  is  not  work  for 
imitators,  however,  and  we  must  copy  strictly  the  portrait 
of  the  matchless  Teh-leen,  as  drawn  by  Le-pih,  the  Anacreon 
of  Chinese  poetry  and  the  contemporary  and  favorite  of 
Yuentsoong. 

"  Teh-leen  was  born  while  the  morning  star  shone  upon 
the  bosom  of  her  mother.  Her  eye  was  like  the  unblemished 
blue  lily,  and  its  light  like  the  white  gem  unfractured.  The 
plum-blossom  is  most  fragrant  when  the  cold  has  penetrated 
its  stem,  and  the  mother  of  Teh-leen  had  known  sorrow. 
The  head  of  her  child  drooped  in  thought,  like  a  violet  over- 
laden with  dew.  Bewildering  was  Teh-leen.  Her  mouth's 
corners  were  dimpled,  yet  pensive.  The  arch  of  her  brows 
was  like  the  vein  in  the  tulip's  heart,  and  the  lashes  shaded 
the  blushes  on  her  cheek.  With  the  delicacy  of  a  pale  rose, 
her  complexion  put  to  shame  the  floating  light  of  day.  Her 
waist,  like  a  thread  in  fineness,  seemed  ready  to  break,  yet 
was  it  straight  and  erect,  and  feared  not  the  fanning  breeze ; 
and  her  shadowy  grace  was  as  difficult  to  delineate  as  the 
form  of  the  white  bird  rising  from  the  ground  by  moonlight. 
The  natural  gloss  of  her  hair  resembled  the  uncertain  sheen 
of  calm  water,  yet  without  the  false  aid  of  unguents.  The 
native  intelligence  of  her  mind  seemed  to  have  gained 
strength  by  retirement ;  and  he  who  beheld  her  thought  not 
of  her  as  human.  Of  rare  beauty,  of  rarer  intellect,  was 
Teh-leen,  and  her  heart  responded  to  the  poet's  lute." 

We  have  not  space,  nor  could  we,  without  copying  directly 
from  the  admired  Le-pih,  venture  to  describe  the  bringing 
of  Teh-leen  to  court,  and  her  surprise  at  finding  herself  the 
favorite  of  the  emperor.  It  is  a  romantic  circumstance, 
besides,  which  has  had  its  parallels  in  other  countries.  But 
the  sad  sequel  to  the  loves  of  poor  Teh-leen  is  but  recorded 
in  the  cold  page  of  history ;  and  if  the  poet,  who  wound  up 


i86     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the  climax  of  her  perfections  with  her  susceptibility  to  his 
lute,  embalmed  her  sorrows  in  verse,  he  was  probably  too 
politic  to  bring  it  ever  to  light.  Pass  we  to  these  neglected 
and  unadorned  passages  of  her  history. 

Yuentsoong's  nature  was  passionately  devoted  and  con- 
fiding ;  and,  like  two  brothers  with  one  favorite  sister,  lived 
together  Teh-leen,  Szema,  and  the  emperor.  The  Tartar 
prince,  if  his  heart  knew  a  mistress  before  the  arrival  of 
Teh-leen  at  the  palace,  owned  afterward  no  other  than  her ; 
and,  fearless  of  check  or  suspicion  from  the  noble  confidence 
and  generous  friendship  of  Yuentsoong,  he  seemed  to  live 
but  for  her  service,  and  to  have  neither  energies  nor  ambi- 
tion except  for  the  winning  of  her  smiles.  Szema  was  of 
great  personal  beauty,  frank  when  it  did  not  serve  him  to  be 
wily,  bold  in  his  pleasures,  and  of  manners  almost  femininely 
soft  and  voluptuous.  He  was  renowned  as  a  soldier,  and, 
for  Teh-leen,  he  became  a  poet  and  master  of  the  lute ; 
and,  like  all  men  formed  for  ensnaring  the  heart  of  women, 
he  seemed  to  forget  himself  in  the  absorbing  devotion  of 
his  idolatry.  His  friend  the  emperor  was  of  another  mould. 
Yuentsoong's  heart  had  three  chambers,  — love,  friendship, 
and  glory.  Teh-leen  was  but  a  third  in  his  existence,  yet  he 
loved  her,  —  the  sequel  will  show  how  well.  In  person,  he 
was  less  beautiful  than  majestic,  of  large  stature,  and  with  a 
brow  and  lip  naturally  stern  and  lofty.  He  seldom  smiled, 
even  upon  Teh-leen,  whom  he  would  watch  for  hours  in 
pensive  and  absorbed  delight ;  but  his  smile,  when  it  did 
awake,  broke  over  his  sad  countenance  like  morning.  All 
men  loved  and  honored  Yuentsoong ;  and  all  men,  except 
only  the  emperor,  looked  on  Szema  with  antipathy.  To  such 
natures  as  the  former,  women  give  all  honor  and  approba- 
tion ;  but,  for  such  as  the  latter,  they  reserve  their  weakness  ! 

Wrapt  up  in  his  friend  and  mistress,  and  reserved  in  his 
intercourse  with  his  counsellors,  Yuentsoong  knew  not  that, 
throughout  the  imperial  city,  Szema  was  called  "  the  kieu" 
or  robber-bird,  and  his  fair  Teh-leen  openly  charged  with 
dishonor.  Going  out  alone  to  hunt,  as  was  his  custom,  and 


NATHANIEL   PARKER  WILLIS     187 

having  left  his  signet  with  Szema,  to  pass  and  repass  through 
the  private  apartments  at  his  pleasure,  his  horse  fell  with 
him  unaccountably  in  the  open  field.  Somewhat  supersti- 
tious, and  remembering  that  good  spirits  sometimes  "  knit 
the  grass  "  when  other  obstacles  fail  to  bar  our  way  into 
danger,  the  emperor  drew  rein,  and  returned  to  his  palace. 
It  was  an  hour  after  noon,  and,  having  dismissed  his  attend- 
ants at  the  city  gate,  he  entered  by  a  postern  to  the  imperial 
garden,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  concealed  couch  in  a 
cool  grot  by  a  fountain  (a  favorite  retreat,  sacred  to  himself 
and  Teh-leen),  where  he  fancied  it  would  be  refreshing  to 
sleep  away  the  sultriness  of  the  remaining  hours  till  evening. 
Sitting  down  by  the  side  of  the  murmuring  fount,  he  bathed 
his  feet,  and  left  his  slippers  on  the  lip  of  the  basin  to  be 
unencumbered  in  his  repose  within,  and  so,  with  unechoing 
step,  entered  the  resounding  grotto.  Alas  !  there  slumbered 
the  faithless  friend  with  the  guilty  Teh-leen  upon  his  bosom  ! 

Grief  struck  through  the  noble  heart  of  the  emperor  like 
a  sword  in  cold  blood.  With  a  word  he  could  consign  to 
torture  and  death  the  robber  of  his  honor,  but  there  was 
agony  in  his  bosom  deeper  than  revenge.  He  turned 
silently  away,  recalling  his  horse  and  huntsmen,  and,  out- 
stripping all,  plunged  on  through  the  forest  till  night  gath- 
ered around  him. 

Yuentsoong  had  been  absent  many  days  from  his  capital, 
and  his  subjects  were  murmuring  their  fears  for  his  safety, 
when  a  messenger  arrived  to  the  counsellors  informing  them 
of  the  appointment  of  the  captive  Tartar  prince  to  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  province  of  Szechuen,  the  second  honor  of 
the  Celestial  empire.  A  private  order  accompanied  the  an- 
nouncement, commanding  the  immediate  departure  of  Szema 
for  the  scene  of  his  new  authority.  Inexplicable  as  was  this 
riddle  to  the  multitude,  there  were  those  who  read  it  truly 
by  their  knowledge  of  the  magnanimous  soul  of  the  emperor ; 
and  among  these  was  the  crafty  object  of  his  generosity. 
Losing  no  time,  he  set  forward  with  great  pomp  for  Szechuen, 
and  in  their  joy  to  see  him  no  more  in  the  palace,  the  slighted 


i88     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

princes  of  the  empire  forgave  his  unmerited  advancement. 
Yuentsoong  returned  to  his  capital;  but  to  the  terror  of 
his  counsellors  and  people,  his  hair  was  blanched  white  as 
the  head  of  an  old  man  !  He  was  pale  as  well,  but  he  was 
cheerful  and  kind  beyond  his  wont,  and  to  Teh-leen  untiring 
in  pensive  and  humble  attentions.  He  pleaded  only  im- 
paired health  and  restless  slumbers  as  an  apology  for  nights  of 
solitude.  Once  Teh-leen  penetrated  to  his  lonely  chamber, 
but  by  the  dim  night  lamp  she  saw  that  the  scroll  over  the 
window 1  was  changed,  and  instead  of  the  stimulus  to  glory 
which  formerly  hung  in  golden  letters  before  his  eyes,  there 
was  a  sentence  written  tremblingly  in  black :  — 

"  The  close  wing  of  love  covers  the  death-throb  of  honor." 

Six  months  from  this  period  the  capital  was  thrown  into 
a  tumult  with  the  intelligence  that  the  province  of  Szechuen 
was  in  rebellion,  and  Szema  at  the  head  of  a  numerous  army 
on  his  way  to  seize  the  throne  of  Yuentsoong.  This  last 
sting  betrayed  the  serpent  even  to  the  forgiving  emperor, 
and  tearing  the  reptile  at  last  from  his  heart,  he  entered  with 
the  spirit  of  other  times  into  the  warlike  preparations.  The 
imperial  army  was  in  a  few  days  on  its  march,  and  at  Keo- 
yang  the  opposing  forces  met  and  prepared  for  encounter. 

With  a  dread  of  the  popular  feeling  toward  Teh-leen, 
Yuentsoong  had  commanded  for  her  a  close  litter,  and  she 
was  borne  after  the  imperial  standard  in  the  centre  of  the 
army.  On  the  eve  before  the  battle,  ere  the  watch-fires 
were  lit,  the  emperor  came  to  her  tent,  set  apart  from  his 
own,  and  with  the  delicate  care  and  kind  gentleness  from 

1  The  most  common  decorations  of  rooms,  halls,  and  temples, 
in  China,  are  ornamental  scrolls  or  labels  of  colored  paper  or 
wood,  painted  and  gilded,  and  hung  over  doors  or  windows,  and 
inscribed  with  a  line  or  couplet  conveying  some  allusion  to  the 
circumstances  of  the  inhabitant,  or  some  pious  or  philosophical 
axiom.  For  instance,  a  poetical  one  recorded  by  Dr.  Morrison : — 

"  From  the  pine  forest  the  azure  dragon  ascends  to  the  milky  way,"  — 
typical  of  the  prosperous  man  arising  to  wealth  and  honors. 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS     189 

which  he  never  varied,  inquired  how  her  wants  were  sup- 
plied, and  bade  her  thus  early  farewell  for  the  night;  his 
own  custom  of  passing  among  his  soldiers  on  the  evening 
previous  to  an  engagement,  promising  to  interfere  with  what 
was  usually  his  last  duty  before  retiring  to  his  couch.  Teh- 
leen  on  this  occasion  seemed  moved  by  some  irrepressible 
emotion,  and  as  he  rose  to  depart,  she  fell  forward  upon  her 
face,  and  bathed  his  feet  with  her  tears.  Attributing  it  to 
one  of  those  excesses  of  feeling  to  which  all,  but  especially 
hearts  ill  at  ease,  are  liable,  the  noble  monarch  gently  raised 
her,  and  with  repeated  efforts  at  re-assurance,  committed 
her  to  the  hands  of  her  women.  His  own  heart  beat  far 
from  tranquilly,  for,  in  the  excess  of  his  pity  for  her  grief  he 
had  unguardedly  called  her  by  one  of  the  sweet  names  of 
their  early  days  of  love,  —  strange  word  now  upon  his  lip,  — 
and  it  brought  back,  spite  of  memory  and  truth,  happiness 
that  would  not  be  forgotten  ! 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  the  moon  was  riding  high  in 
heaven,  when  the  emperor,  returning  between  the  lengthen- 
ing watch-fires,  sought  the  small  lamp  which,  suspended  like 
a  star  above  his  own  tent,  guided  him  back  from  the  irreg- 
ular mazes  of  the  camp.  Paled  by  the  intense  radiance  of 
the  moonlight,  the  small  globe  of  alabaster  at  length  became 
apparent  to  his  weary  eye,  and  with  one  glance  at  the  peace- 
ful beauty  of  the  heavens,  he  parted  the  curtained  door  be- 
neath it,  and  stood  within.  The  Chinese  historian  asserts 
that  a  bird,  from  whose  wing  Teh-leen  had  once  plucked  an 
arrow,  restoring  it  to  liberty  and  life,  in  grateful  attachment 
to  her  destiny,  removed  the  lamp  from  the  imperial  tent, 
and  suspended  it  over  hers.  The  emperor  stood  beside 
her  couch.  Startled  at  his  inadvertent  error,  he  turned  to 
retire ;  but  the  lifted  curtain  let  in  a  flood  of  moonlight 
upon  the  sleeping  features  of  Teh-leen,  and  like  dewdrops 
the  undried  tears  glistened  in  her  silken  lashes.  A  lamp 
burned  faintly  in  the  inner  apartment  of  the  tent,  and  her 
attendants  slept  soundly.  His  soft  heart  gave  way.  Taking 
up  the  lamp,  he  held  it  over  his  beautiful  mistress,  and  once 


i9o     AMERICAN  SHORT   STORIES 

more  gazed  passionately  and  unrestrainedly  on  her  unpar- 
alleled beauty.  The  past  —  the  early  past  —  was  alone 
before  him.  He  forgave  her,  —  there,  as  she  slept,  uncon- 
scious of  the  throbbing  of  his  injured  but  noble  heart  so 
close  beside  her,  —  he  forgave  her  in  the  long  silent  abysses 
of  his  soul !  Unwilling  to  wake  her  from  her  tranquil  slum- 
ber, but  promising  to  himself,  from  that  hour,  such  sweets 
of  confiding  love  as  had  well-nigh  been  lost  to  him  for- 
ever, he  imprinted  one  kiss  upon  the  parted  lips  of  Teh-leen, 
and  sought  his  couch  for  slumber. 

Ere  daybreak  the  emperor  was  aroused  by  one  of  his 
attendants  with  news  too  important  for  delay.  Szema,  the 
rebel,  had  been  arrested  in  the  imperial  camp,  disguised, 
and  on  his  way  back  to  his  own  forces ;  and  like  wildfire 
the  information  had  spread  among  the  soldiery,  who,  in  a 
state  of  mutinous  excitement,  were  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  rushing  upon  the  tent  of  Teh-leen.  At  the  door  of 
his  tent,  Yuentsoong  found  messengers  from  the  alarmed 
princes  and  officers  of  the  different  commands,  imploring 
immediate  aid  and  the  imperial  presence  to  allay  the  ex- 
citement; and  while  the  emperor  prepared  to  mount  his 
horse,  the  guard  arrived  with  the  Tartar  prince,  ignomini- 
ously  tied,  and  bearing  marks  of  rough  usage  from  his 
indignant  captors. 

"  Loose  him  ! "  cried  the  emperor,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

The  cords  were  severed,  and  with  a  glance  whose  ferocity 
expressed  no  thanks,  Szema  reared  himself  up  to  his  fullest 
height,  and  looked  scornfully  around  him.  Daylight  had 
now  broke,  and  as  the  group  stood  upon  an  eminence  in 
sight  of  the  whole  army,  shouts  began  to  ascend,  and  the 
armed  multitude,  breaking  through  all  restraint,  rolled  in 
toward  the  centre.  Attracted  by  the  commotion,  Yuent- 
soong turned  to  give  some  orders  to  those  near  him,  when 
Szema  suddenly  sprang  upon  an  officer  of  the  guard, 
wrenched  his  drawn  sword  from  his  grasp,  and  in  an  instant 
was  lost  to  sight  in  the  tent  of  Teh-leen.  A  sharp  scream, 
a  second  of  thought,  and  forth  again  rushed  the  desperate 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS     191 

murderer,  with  his  sword  flinging  drops  of  blood,  and  ere 
a  foot  stirred  in  the  paralyzed  group,  the  avenging  cimeter 
of  Yuentsoong  had  cleft  him  to  the  chin. 

A  hush,  as  if  the  whole  army  was  struck  dumb  by  a  bolt 
from  heaven,  followed  this  rapid  tragedy.  Dropping  the 
polluted  sword  from  his  hand,  the  emperor,  with  uncertain 
step,  and  the  pallor  of  death  upon  his  countenance,  entered 
the  fatal  tent. 

He  came  no  more  forth  that  day.  The  army  was  mar- 
shalled by  the  princes,  and  the  rebels  were  routed  with 
great  slaughter ;  but  Yuentsoong  never  more  wielded  sword. 
"  He  pined  to  death,"  says  the  historian,  "  with  the  wane 
of  the  same  moon  that  shone  upon  the  forgiveness  of 
Teh-leen." 


CAROLINE    MATILDA    STANSBURY 
KIRKLAND 

1801  - 1864 

MRS.  KIRKLAND  was  recognised  as  one  of  the  New  York 
literary  set  during  the  flourishing  of  Willis.  Her  marriage  to 
Professor  William  Kirkland  (1827)  took  her  to  Central  New 
York,  and  in  1839  to  the  Michigan  frontier.  The  emigration 
produced  immediately  A  New  Home —  Who  '//  Follow  (New 
York,  1839).  "  Miss  Mitford's  charming  sketches  of  village 
life,"  she  says  in  her  preface,  "  suggested  the  form."  It  is  the 
best  of  her  books,  not  only  in  its  distinct  historical  value  as  a 
document  of  frontier  life,  but  also  in  its  vivacity  and  keen  intel- 
ligence of  style.  Of  structure  there  is  very  little,  a  mere  series 
of  descriptions,  with  an  occasional  sketch  in  narrative.  Return- 
ing to  New  York  in  1842,  she  opened  a  school  for  girls,  wrote 
for  the  magazines,  and  published,  as  a  sequel  to  her  first  book, 
Forest  Life  (New  York  and  Boston,  1842).  Her  tales,  collected 
under  the  title  Western  Clearings  (New  York,  1846),  show  the 
same  qualities  as  her  descriptions  —  racy  dialect,  dashes  of 
penetrative  characterisation,  quick  suggestion  of  manners  ;  but 
their  narrative  consistency  is  not  usually  strong  enough  to  hold 
interest.  She  returned  to  her  first  form  in  Holidays  Abroad 
(1849).  After  that  the  titles  of  her  books  suggest  hack-work. 
Meantime  Mr.  Kirkland  had  won  his  place  as  an  editor.  Poe 
included  them  both,  the  husband  perfunctorily,  the  wife  cor- 
dially, among  his  Literati. 


THE   BEE-TREE 

[From  "Western  Clearings,"  1846,  a  collection  composed  both  of 
contributions  to  magazines  and  annuals  and  of  new  matter.  The 
reprint  below  omits  an  explanatory  introduction  and  an  episodic  love- 
story  which,  besides  being  feeble,  is  rendered  quite  superfluous  by  the 
denouement.] 

IT  was  on  one  of  the  lovely  mornings  of  our  ever  lovely 
autumn,  so  early  that  the  sun  had  scarcely  touched  the 
tops  of  the  still  verdant  forest,  that  Silas  Ashburn  and  his 
eldest  son  sallied  forth  for  a  day's  chopping  on  the  newly- 
purchased  land  of  a  rich  settler,  who  had  been  but  a  few 
months  among  us.  The  tall  form  of  the  father,  lean  and 
gaunt  as  the  very  image  of  Famine,  derived  little  grace 
from  the  rags  which  streamed  from  the  elbows  of  his  almost 
sleeveless  coat,  or  flapped  round  the  tops  of  his  heavy  boots, 
as  he  strode  across  the  long  causeway  that  formed  the 
communication  from  his  house  to  the  dry  land.  Poor  Joe's 
costume  showed,  if  possible,  a  still  greater  need  of  the  aid 
of  that  useful  implement,  the  needle.  His  mother  is  one 
who  thinks  little  of  the  ancient  proverb  that  commends  the 
stitch  in  time ;  and  the  clothing  under  her  care  sometimes 
falls  in  pieces,  seam  by  seam.  For  want  of  this  occasional 
aid  is  rendered  more  especially  necessary  by  the  slightness 
of  the  original  sewing ;  so  that  the  brisk  breeze  of  the 
morning  gave  the  poor  boy  no  faint  resemblance  to  a  tall 
young  aspen, 

"  With  all  its  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once." 

The  little  conversation  which  passed  between  the  father 
and  son  was  such  as  necessarily  makes  up  much  of  the  talk 
of  the  poor. 

'95 


196     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  If  we  had  n't  had  sich  bad  luck  this  summer,"  said  Mr. 
Ashburn,  "  losing  that  heifer,  and  the  pony,  and  them  three 
hogs,  —  all  in  that  plaguy  spring-hole,  too,  —  I  thought  to 
have  bought  that  timbered  forty  of  Dean.  It  would  have 
squared  out  my  farm  jist  about  right." 

"The  pony  didn't  die  in  the  spring-hole,  father,"  said 
Joe. 

"  No,  he  did  not,  but  he  got  his  death  there,  for  all. 
He  never  stopped  shiverin'  from  the  time  he  fell  in.  You 
thought  he  had  the  agur,  but  I  know'd  well  enough  what 
ailded  him ;  but  I  was  n't  agoin'  to  let  Dean  know,  because 
he  'd  ha'  thought  himself  so  blam'd  cunning,  after  all  he  'd 
said  to  me  about  that  spring-hole.  If  the  agur  could  kill, 
Joe,  we  'd  all  ha'  been  dead  long  ago." 

Joe  sighed,  — a  sigh  of  assent.    They  walked  on  musingly. 

"  This  is  going  to  be  a  good  job  of  Keene's,"  continued 
Mr.  Ashburn,  turning  to  a  brighter  theme,  as  they  crossed 
the  road  and  struck  into  the  "  timbered  land,"  on  their 
way  to  the  scene  of  the  day's  operations.  "  He  has  bought 
three  eighties,  all  lying  close  together,  and  he  '11  want  as 
much  as  one  forty  cleared  right  off;  and  I  've  a  good 
notion  to  take  the  fencin'  of  it  as  well  as  the  choppin'. 
He 's  got  plenty  of  money,  and  they  say  he  don't  shave 
quite  so  close  as  some.  But  I  tell  you,  Joe,  if  I  do  take 
the  job,  you  must  turn  to  like  a  catamount,  for  I  ain't 
a-going  to  make  a  nigger  o'  myself,  and  let  my  children 
do  nothing  but  eat." 

"  Well,  father,"  responded  Joe,  whose  pale  face  gave 
token  of  any  thing  but  high  living,  "  I  '11  do  what  I  can ; 
but  you  know  I  never  work  two  days  at  choppin'  but  what 
I  have  the  agur  like  sixty,  —  and  a  feller  can't  work  when 
he  's  got  the  agur." 

"  Not  while  the  fit 's  on,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  father, 
"  but  I  've  worked  many  an  afternoon  after  my  fit  was  over, 
when  my  head  felt  as  big  as  a  half-bushel,  and  my  hands 
would  ha'  sizzed  if  I  had  put  'em  in  water.  Poor  folks  has 
got  to  work  —  but  Joe  !  if  there  isn't  bees,  by  golley  !  I 


CAROLINE    M.    S.    KIRKLAND     197 

wonder  if  anybody 's  been  a  baitin'  for  'em  ?  Stop  !  hush  ! 
watch  which  way  they  go  !  " 

And  with  breathless  interest  —  forgetful  of  all  troubles, 
past,  present,  and  future  —  they  paused  to  observe  the 
capricious  wheelings  and  flittings  of  the  little  cluster,  as 
they  tried  every  flower  on  which  the  sun  shone,  or  returned 
again  and  again  to  such  as  suited  best  their  discriminating 
taste.  At  length,  after  a  weary  while,  one  suddenly  rose 
into  the  air  with  a  loud  whizz,  and  after  balancing  a 
moment  on  a  level  with  the  tree-tops,  darted  off,  like  a 
well-sent  arrow,  toward  the  east,  followed  instantly  by  the 
whole  busy  company,  till  not  a  loiterer  remained. 

"Well!  if  this  isn't  luck!"  exclaimed  Ashburn,  exult- 
ingly ;  "  they  make  right  for  Keene's  land  !  We  '11  have 
'em  !  go  ahead,  Joe,  and  keep  your  eye  on  'em  !  " 

Joe  obeyed  so  well  in  both  points  that  he  not  only  out- 
ran his  father,  but  very  soon  turned  a  summerset  over  a 
gnarled  root  or  grub  which  lay  in  his  path.  This  faux  pas 
nearly  demolished  one  side  of  his  face,  and  what  remained 
of  his  jacket  sleeve,  while  his  father,  not  quite  so  heedless, 
escaped  falling,  but  tore  his  boot  almost  off  with  what  he 
called  "a  contwisted  stub  of  the  toe." 

But  these  were  trifling  inconveniences,  and  only  taught 
them  to  use  a  little  more  caution  in  their  eagerness. 
They  followed  on,  unweariedly ;  crossed  several  fences,  and 
threaded  much  of  Mr.  Keene's  tract  of  forest-land,  scan- 
ning with  practised  eye  every  decayed  tree,  whether  stand- 
ing or  prostrate,  until  at  length,  in  the  side  of  a  gigantic 
but  leafless  oak,  they  espied,  some  forty  feet  from  the 
ground,  the  "  sweet  home  "  of  the  immense  swarm  whose 
scouts  had  betrayed  their  hiding-place. 

"The  Indians  have  been  here;"  said  Ashburn;  "you 
see  they  've  felled  this  saplin'  agin  the  bee-tree,  so  as  they 
could  climb  up  to  the  hole ;  but  the  red  devils  have  been 
disturbed  afore  they  had  time  to  dig  it  out.  If  they  'd  had 
axes  to  cut  down  the  big  tree,  they  would  n't  have  left  a 
smitchin  o'  honey,  they  're  such  tarnal  thieves  !  " 


198     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

Mr.  Ashburn's  ideas  of  morality  were  much  shocked  at 
the  thought  of  the  dishonesty  of  the  Indians,  who,  as  is 
well  known,  have  no  rights  of  any  kind  ;  but  considering 
himself  as  first  finder,  the  lawful  proprietor  of  this  much- 
coveted  treasure,  gained  too  without  the  trouble  of  a  pro- 
tracted search,  or  the  usual  amount  of  baiting,  and  burning 
of  honeycombs,  he  lost  no  time  in  taking  possession  after 
the  established  mode. 

To  cut  his  initials  with  his  axe  on  the  trunk  of  the 
bee-tree,  and  to  make  blazes  on  several  of  the  trees  he 
had  passed,  detained  him  but  a  few  minutes ;  and  with 
many  a  cautious  noting  of  the  surrounding  localities, 
and  many  a  charge  to  Joe  "not  to  say  nothing  to  no- 
body," Silas  turned  his  steps  homeward,  musing  on  the 
important  fact  that  he  had  had  good  luck  for  once,  and 
planning  important  business  quite  foreign  to  the  day's 
chopping. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  Keene,  who  is  a  restless 
old  gentleman,  and,  moreover,  quite  green  in  the  dignity 
of  a  land-holder,  thought  proper  to  turn  his  horse's  head, 
for  this  particular  morning  ride,  directly  towards  these 
same  "  three  eighties,"  on  which  he  had  engaged  Ashburn 
and  his  son  to  commence  the  important  work  of  clearing. 
Mr.  Keene  is  low  of  stature,  rather  globular  in  contour, 
and  exceedingly  parrot- nosed ;  wearing,  moreover,  a  face 
red  enough  to  lead  one  to  suppose  he  had  made  his  money 
as  a  dealer  in  claret ;  but,  in  truth,  one  of  the  kindest  of 
men,  in  spite  of  a  little  quickness  of  temper.  He  is 
profoundly  versed  in  the  art  and  mystery  of  store-keep- 
ing, and  as  profoundly  ignorant  of  all  that  must  sooner  or 
later  be  learned  by  every  resident  land-owner  of  the  western 
country. 

Thus  much  being  premised,  we  shall  hardly  wonder  that 
our  good  old  friend  felt  exceedingly  aggrieved  at  meeting 
Silas  Ashburn  and  the  "  lang-legged  chiel "  Joe,  (who  has 
grown  longer  with  every  shake  of  ague,)  on  the  way  from 
his  tract,  instead  of  to  it. 


CAROLINE    M.    S.    KIRKLAND     199 

"  What  in  the  world  's  the  matter  now ! "  began  Mr. 
Keene,  rather  testily.  "  Are  you  never  going  to  begin  that 
work?" 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  shall ;  "  was  the  cool  reply  of  Ash- 
burn;  "I  can't  begin  it  to-day,  though." 

"And  why  not,  pray,  when  I  've  been  so  long  waiting?" 

"  Because,  I  've  got  something  else  that  must  be  done 
first.  You  don't  think  your  work  is  all  the  work  there  is  in 
the  world,  do  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Keene  was  almost  too  angry  to  reply,  but  he  made 
an  effort  to  say,  "When  am  I  to  expect  you,  then?" 

"  Why,  I  guess  we  '11  come  on  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then 
I  '11  bring  both  the  boys." 

So  saying,  and  not  dreaming  of  having  been  guilty  of  an 
incivility,  Mr.  Ashburn  passed  on,  intent  only  on  his  bee- 
tree. 

Mr.  Keene  could  not  help  looking  after  the  ragged  pair 
for  a  moment,  and  he  muttered  angrily  as  he  turned  away, 
"  Aye  !  pride  and  beggary  go  together  in  this  confounded 
new  country !  You  feel  very  independent,  no  doubt,  but 
I  '11  try  if  I  can't  find  somebody  that  wants  money." 

And  Mr.  Keene's  pony,  as  if  sympathizing  with  his  mas- 
ter's vexation,  started  off  at  a  sharp,  passionate  trot,  which 
he  has  learned,  no  doubt,  under  the  habitual  influence  of 
the  spicy  temper  of  his  rider. 

To  find  labourers  who  wanted  money,  or  who  would  own 
that  they  wanted  it,  was  at  that  time  no  easy  task.  Our 
poorer  neighbours  have  been  so  little  accustomed  to  value 
household  comforts,  that  the  opportunity  to  obtain  them 
presents  but  feeble  incitement  to  continuous  industry. 
However,  it  happened  in  this  case  that  Mr.  Keene's  star 
was  in  the  ascendant,  and  the  woods  resounded,  ere  long, 
under  the  sturdy  strokes  of  several  choppers. 

The  Ashburns,  in  the  mean  time,  set  themselves  busily  at 
work  to  make  due  preparations  for  the  expedition  which 
they  had  planned  for  the  following  night.  They  felt,  as 


200     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

does  every  one  who  finds  a  bee-tree  in  this  region,  that  the 
prize  was  their  own  —  that  nobody  else  had  the  slightest 
claim  to  its  rich  stores ;  yet  the  gathering  in  of  the  spoils 
was  to  be  performed,  according  to  the  invariable  custom 
where  the  country  is  much  settled,  in  the  silence  of  night, 
and  with  every  precaution  of  secrecy.  This  seems  incon- 
sistent, yet  such  is  the  fact. 

The  remainder  of  the  "  lucky  "  day  and  the  whole  of  the 
succeeding  one  passed  in  scooping  troughs  for  the  recep- 
tion of  the  honey,  —  tedious  work  at  best,  but  unusually  so 
in  this  instance,  because  several  of  the  family  were  prostrate 
with  the  ague.  Ashburn's  anxiety  lest  some  of  his  custom- 
ary bad  luck  should  intervene  between  discovery  and  pos- 
session, made  him  more  impatient  and  harsh  than  usual ; 
and  the  interior  of  that  comfortless  cabin  would  have  pre- 
sented to  a  chance  visitor,  who  knew  not  of  the  golden 
hopes  which  cheered  its  inmates,  an  aspect  of  unmitigated 
wretchedness.  Mrs.  Ashburn  sat  almost  in  the  fire,  with  a 
tattered  hood  on  her  head  and  the  relics  of  a  bed-quilt 
wrapped  about  her  person ;  while  the  emaciated  limbs  of 
the  baby  on  her  lap,  —  two  years  old,  yet  unweaned,  — 
seemed  almost  to  reach  the  floor,  so  preternaturally  were 
they  lengthened  by  the  stretches  of  a  four  months'  ague. 
Two  of  the  boys  lay  in  the  trundle-bed,  which  was  drawn 
as  near  to  the  fire  as  possible ;  and  every  spare  article  of 
clothing  that  the  house  afforded  was  thrown  over  them,  in 
the  vain  attempt  to  warm  their  shivering  frames.  "  Stop 
your  whimperin',  can't  ye  ! "  said  Ashburn,  as  he  hewed 
away  with  hatchet  and  jack-knife,  "  you  '11  be  hot  enough 
before  long."  And  when  the  fever  came  his  words  were 
more  than  verified. 

Two  nights  had  passed  before  the  preparations  were 
completed.  Ashburn  and  such  of  his  boys  as  could  work 
had  laboured  indefatigably  at  the  troughs ;  and  Mrs.  Ashburn 
had  thrown  away  the  milk,  and  the  few  other  stores  which 
cumbered  her  small  supply  of  household  utensils,  to  free  as 
many  as  possible  for  the  grand  occasion.  This  third  day 


CAROLINE    M.    S.    KIRKLAND     201 

had  been  "  well  day "  to  most  of  the  invalids,  and  after 
the  moon  had  risen  to  light  them  through  the  dense  wood, 
the  family  set  off,  in  high  spirits,  on  their  long,  dewy  walk. 
They  had  passed  the  causeway  and  were  turning  from  the 
highway  into  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  when  they  were 
accosted  by  a  stranger,  a  young  man  in  a  hunter's  dress, 
evidently  a  traveller,  and  one  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
place  or  its  inhabitants,  as  Mr.  Ashburn  ascertained,  to  his 
entire  satisfaction,  by  the  usual  number  of  queries.  The 
stranger,  a  handsome  youth  of  one  or  two  and  twenty,  had 
that  frank,  joyous  air  which  takes  so  well  with  us  Wol- 
verines; and  after  he  had  fully  satisfied  our  bee-hunter's 
curiosity,  he  seemed  disposed  to  ask  some  questions  in  his 
turn.  '  One  of  the  first  of  these  related  to  the  moving  cause 
of  the  procession  and  their  voluminous  display  of  containers. 
"  Why,  we  're  goin'  straight  to  a  bee-tree  that  I  lit  upon 
two  or  three  days  ago,  and  if  you  've  a  mind  to,  you  may 
go  'long,  and  welcome.  It 's  a  real  peeler,  I  tell  ye  ! 
There  's  a  hundred  and  fifty  weight  of  honey  in  it,  if  there  's 
a  pound." 

The  young  traveller  waited  no  second  invitation.  His 
light  knapsack  being  but  small  incumbrance,  he  took  upon 
himself  the  weight  of  several  troughs  that  seemed  too 
heavy  for  the  weaker  members  of  the  expedition.  They 
walked  on  at  a  rapid  and  steady  pace  for  a  good  half 
hour,  over  paths  that  were  none  of  the  smoothest,  and 
only  here  and  there  lighted  by  the  moonbeams.  The 
mother  and  children  were  but  ill  fitted  for  the  exertion, 
but  Aladdin,  on  his  midnight  way  to  the  wondrous  vault 
of  treasure,  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  complaining 
of  fatigue. 

Who  then  shall  describe  the  astonishment,  the  almost 
breathless  rage  of  Silas  Ashburn,  —  the  bitter  disappoint- 
ment of  the  rest,  —  when  they  found,  instead  of  the  bee- 
tree,  a  great  gap  in  the  dense  forest,  and  the  bright  moon 
shining  on  the  shattered  fragments  of  the  immense  oak  that 
had  contained  their  prize?  The  poor  children,  fainting 


202     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

with  toil  now  that  the  stimulus  was  gone,  threw  themselves 
on  the  ground ;  and  Mrs.  Ashburn,  seating  her  wasted  form 
on  a  huge  branch,  burst  into  tears. 

"  It 's  all  one  !  "  exclaimed  Ashburn,  when  at  length  he 
could  find  words ;  "  it 's  all  alike  !  this  is  just  my  luck  !  It 
ain't  none  of  my  neighbour's  work,  though  !  They  know 
better  than  to  be  so  mean  !  It 's  the  rich  !  Them  that  be- 
grudges the  poor  man  the  breath  of  life  !  "  And  he  cursed 
bitterly  and  with  clenched  teeth,  whoever  had  robbed  him 
of  his  right. 

"  Don't  cry,  Betsey,"  he  continued ;  "  let 's  go  home. 
I  '11  find  out  who  has  done  this,  and  I  '11  let  'em  know  there  's 
law  for  the  poor  man  as  well  as  the  rich.  Come  along, 
young  'uns,  and  stop  your  blubberin',  and  let  them  splinters 
alone  !  "  The  poor  little  things  were  trying  to  gather  up 
some  of  the  fragments  to  which  the  honey  still  adhered, 
but  their  father  was  too  angry  to  be  kind. 

"Was  the  tree  on  your  own  land?"  now  inquired  the 
young  stranger,  who  had  stood  by  in  sympathizing  silence 
during  this  scene. 

"  No  !  but  that  don't  make  any  difference.  The  man 
that  found  it  first,  and  marked  it,  had  a  right  to  it  afore  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  and  that  I  '11  let  'em  know, 
if  it  costs  me  my  farm.  It 's  on  old  Keene's  land,  and  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  the  old  miser  had  done  it  himself,  — 
but  I  '11  let  him  know  what 's  the  law  in  Michigan  !  " 

"  Mr.  Keene  a  miser !  "  exclaimed  the  young  stranger, 
rather  hastily. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  about  him  ?  " 

"  O  !  nothing  !  —  that  is,  nothing  very  particular  —  but 
I  have  heard  him  well  spoken  of.  What  I  was  going  to  say 
was,  that  I  fear  you  will  not  find  the  law  able  to  do  anything 
for  you.  If  the  tree  was  on  another  person's  property —  " 

"  Property  !  that 's  just  so  much  as  you  know  about  it !  " 
replied  Ashburn,  angrily.  "  I  tell  ye  I  know  the  law  well 
enough,  and  I  know  the  honey  was  mine  —  and  old  Keene 
shall  know  it  too,  if  he 's  the  man  that  stole  it." 


CAROLINE    M.    S.    KIRKLAND     203 

The  stranger  politely  forbore  further  reply,  and  the  whole 
party  walked  on  in  sad  silence  till  they  reached  the  village 
road,  when  the  young  stranger  left  them  with  a  kindly 
"  good  night !  " 

It  was  soon  after  an  early  breakfast  on  the  morning  which 
succeeded  poor  Ashburn's  disappointment,  that  Mr.  Keene, 
attended  by  his  lovely  orphan  niece,  Clarissa  Bensley,  was 
engaged  in  his  little  court-yard,  tending  with  paternal  care 
the  brilliant  array  of  autumnal  flowers  which  graced  its 
narrow  limits.  Beds  in  size  and  shape  nearly  resembling 
patty-pans,  were  filled  to  overflowing  with  dahlias,  china- 
asters  and  marigolds,  while  the  walks  which  surrounded 
them,  daily  "  swept  with  a  woman's  neatness,"  set  off  to  the 
best  advantage  these  resplendent  children  of  Flora.  A  vine- 
hung  porch  that  opened  upon  the  miniature  Paradise  was 
lined  with  bird-cages  of  all  sizes,  and  on  a  yard-square 
grass-plot  stood  the  tin  cage  of  a  squirrel,  almost  too  fat  to 
be  lively. 

After  all  was  "  perform'd  to  point,"  —  when  no  dahlia 
remained  unsupported,  —  no  cluster  of  many-hued  asters 
without  its  neat  hoop,  —  when  no  intrusive  weed  could  be 
discerned,  even  through  Mr.  Keene's  spectacles,  —  Clarissa 
took  the  opportunity  to  ask  if  she  might  take  the  pony  for 
a  ride. 

"  To  see  those  poor  Ashburns,  uncle." 

"  They  're  a  lazy,  impudent  set,  Clary." 

"  But  they  are  all  sick,  uncle ;  almost  every  one  of  the  fam- 
ily down  with  ague.  Do  let  me  go  and  carry  them  some- 
thing. I  hear  they  are  completely  destitute  of  comforts." 

"  And  so  they  ought  to  be,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Keene,  who 
could  not  forget  what  he  considered  Ashburn's  impertinence. 

But  his  habitual  kindness  prevailed,  and  he  concluded 
his  remonstrance  by  saddling  the  pony  himself,  arranging 
Clarissa's  riding-dress  with  all  the  assiduity  of  a  gallant 
cavalier,  and  giving  into  her  hand,  with  her  neat  silver- 
mounted  whip,  a  little  basket,  well-crammed  by  his  wife's 


204     AMERICAN    SHORT    STORIES 

kind  care  with  delicacies  for  the  invalids.  No  wonder  that 
he  looked  after  her  with  pride  as  she  rode  off !  There  are 
few  prettier  girls  than  the  bright-eyed  Clarissa. 

"  How  are  you  this  morning,  Mrs.  Ashburn?  "  asked  the 
young  visitant  as  she  entered  the  wretched  den,  her  little 
basket  on  her  arm,  her  sweet  face  all  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
more  than  half  suffused  with  tears. 

"  Law  sakes  alive  !  "  was  the  reply.  "  I  ain't  no  how. 
I'm  clear  tuckered  out  with  these  young  'uns.  They've 
had  the  agur  already  this  morning,  and  they  're  as  cross  as 
bear-cubs." 

"  Ma ! "  screamed  one,  as  if  in  confirmation  of  the 
maternal  remark,  "  I  want  some  tea !  " 

"Tea!  I  ha'n't  got  no  tea,  and  you  know  that  well 
enough ! " 

"  Well,  give  me  a  piece  o'  sweetcake  then,  and  a  pickle." 

"  The  sweetcake  was  gone  long  ago,  and  I  ha'n't  nothing 
to  make  more — so  shut  your  head!"  And  as  Clarissa 
whispered  to  the  poor  pallid  child  that  she  would  bring  him 
some  if  he  would  be  a  good  boy,  and  not  tease  his  mother, 
Mrs.  Ashburn  produced,  from  a  barrel  of  similar  deli- 
cacies, a  yellow  cucumber,  something  less  than  a  foot  long, 
"  pickled "  in  whiskey  and  water  —  and  this  the  child 
began  devouring  eagerly. 

Miss  Bensley  now  set  out  upon  the  table  the  varied  con- 
tents of  her  basket.  "  This  honey,"  she  said,  showing 
some  as  limpid  as  water,  "  was  found  a  day  or  two  ago  in 
uncle's  woods  —  wild  honey  —  isn't  it  beautiful?" 

Mrs.  Ashburn  fixed  her  eyes  on  it  without  speaking;  but 
her  husband,  who  just  then  came  in,  did  not  command 
himself  so  far.  "  Where  did  you  say  you  got  that  honey?" 
he  asked. 

"  In  our  woods,"  repeated  Clarissa ;  "  I  never  saw  such 
quantities;  and  a  good  deal  of  it  as  clear  and  beautiful 
as  this." 

"  I   thought  as  much  !  "   said  Ashburn   angrily  ;    "  and 


CAROLINE    M.    S.    KIRKLAND     205 

now,  Clary  Bensley,"  he  added,  "  you  '11  just  take  that 
cursed  honey  back  to  your  uncle,  and  tell  him  to  keep  it, 
and  eat  it,  and  I  hope  it  will  choke  him  !  and  if  I  live,  I  '11 
make  him  rue  the  day  he  ever  touched  it." 

Miss  Bensley  gazed  on  him,  lost  in  astonishment.  She 
could  think  of  nothing  but  that  he  must  have  gone  sud- 
denly mad ;  and  the  idea  made  her  instinctively  hasten  her 
steps  toward  the  pony. 

"  Well !  if  you  won't  take  it,  I  '11  send  it  after  ye  ! " 
cried  Ashburn,  who  had  lashed  himself  into  a  rage ;  and 
he  hurled  the  little  jar,  with  all  the  force  of  his  power- 
ful arm,  far  down  the  path  by  which  Clarissa  was  about  to 
depart,  while  his  poor  wife  tried  to  restrain  him  with  a 
piteous  "  Oh,  father  !  don't !  dont !  " 

Then,  recollecting  himself  a  little,  —  for  he  is  far  from 
being  habitually  brutal,  —  he  made  an  awkward  apology  to 
the  frightened  girl. 

"  I  ha'n't  nothing  agin  you,  Miss  Bensley ;  you  've 
always  been  kind  to  me  and  mine ;  but  that  old  devil 
of  an  uncle  of  yours,  that  can't  bear  to  let  a  poor  man 
live,  —  I  '11  larn  him  who  he 's  got  to  deal  with  !  Tell  him 
to  look  out,  for  he  '11  have  reason  !  " 

He  held  the  pony  while  Clarissa  mounted,  as  if  to  atone 
for  his  rudeness  to  herself;  but  he  ceased  not  to  repeat  his 
denunciations  against  Mr.  Keene  as  long  as  she  was  within 
hearing.  As  she  paced  over  the  logs,  Ashburn,  his  rage 
much  cooled  by  this  ebullition,  stood  looking  after  her. 

"I  swan!"  he  exclaimed;  "if  there  ain't  that  very 
feller  that  went  with  us  to  the  bee- tree,  leading  Clary 
Bensley's  horse  over  the  cross- way  !  " 

Clarissa  felt  obliged  to  repeat  to  her  uncle  the  rude 
threats  which  had  so  much  terrified  her ;  and  it  needed 
but  this  to  confirm  Mr.  Keene's  suspicious  dislike  of  Ash- 
burn, whom  he  had  already  learned  to  regard  as  one  of  the 
worst  specimens  of  western  character  that  had  yet  crossed 
his  path.  He  had  often  felt  the  vexations  of  his  new  posi- 


206     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

tion  to  be  almost  intolerable,  and  was  disposed  to  imagine 
himself  the  predestined  victim  of  all  the  ill-will  and  all  the 
impositions  of  the  neighbourhood.  It  unfortunately  hap- 
pened, about  this  particular  time,  that  he  had  been  more 
than  usually  visited  with  disasters  which  are  too  common 
in  a  new  country  to  be  much  regarded  by  those  who 
know  what  they  mean.  His  fences  had  been  thrown  down, 
his  corn-field  robbed,  and  even  the  lodging-place  of  the 
peacock  forcibly  attempted.  But  from  the  moment  he 
discovered  that  Ashburn  had  a  grudge  against  him,  he 
thought  neither  of  unruly  oxen,  mischievous  boys,  nor 
exasperated  neighbours ;  but  concluded  that  the  one  un- 
lucky house  in  the  swamp  was  the  ever-welling  foundation 
of  all  this  bitterness.  He  had  not  yet  been  long  enough 
among  us  to  discern  how  much  our  "  bark  is  waur  than 
our  bite." 

It  was  on  a  very  raw  and  gusty  evening,  not  long  after, 
that  Mr.  Keene,  with  his  handkerchief  carefully  wrapped 
around  his  chin,  sallied  forth  after  dark,  on  an  expedition 
to  the  post-office.  He  was  thinking  how  vexatious  it  was 
—  how  like  everything  else  in  this  disorganized,  or  rather 
unorganized  new  country,  that  the  weekly  mail  should  not 
be  obliged  to  arrive  at  regular  hours,  and  those  early 
enough  to  allow  of  one's  getting  one's  letters  before  dark. 
As  he  proceeded  he  became  aware  of  the  approach  of  two 
persons,  and  though  it  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  faces,  he 
heard  distinctly  the  dreaded  tones  of  Silas  Ashburn. 

"  No  !  I  found  you  were  right  enough  there  !  I  could  n't 
get  at  him  that  way ;  but  I  '11  pay  him  for  it  yet !  " 

He  lost  the  reply  of  the  other  party  in  this  iniquitous 
scheme,  in  the  rushing  of  the  wild  wind  which  hurried  him 
on  his  course ;  but  he  had  heard  enough  !  He  made  out 
to  reach  the  office,  and  receiving  his  paper,  and  hastening 
desperately  homeward,  had  scarcely  spirits  even  to  read 
the  price-current,  (though  he  did  mechanically  glance  at 
the  corner  of  the  "Trumpet  of  Commerce,")  before  he 
retired  to  bed  in  meditative  sadness ;  feeling  quite  unable 


CAROLINE    M.   S.    KIRKLAND     207 

to  await  the  striking  of  nine  on  the  kitchen  clock,  which,  in 
all  ordinary  circumstances,  "  toll'd  the  hour  for  retiring." 

Mr.  Keene's  nerves  had  received  a  terrible  shock  on  this 
fated  evening,  and  it  is  certain  that  for  a  man  of  sober  im- 
agination, his  dreams  were  terrific.  He  saw  Ashburn,  cov- 
ered from  crown  to  sole  with  a  buzzing  shroud  of  bees, 
trampling  on  his  flower-beds,  tearing  up  his  honey-suckles 
root  and  branch,  and  letting  his  canaries  and  Java  sparrows 
out  of  their  cages ;  and,  as  his  eyes  recoiled  from  this  hor- 
rible scene,  they  encountered  the  shambling  form  of  Joe, 
who,  besides  aiding  and  abetting  in  these  enormities,  was 
making  awful  strides,  axe  in  hand,  toward  the  sanctuary  of 
the  pea-fowls. 

He  awoke  with  a  cry  of  horror,  and  found  his  bed-room 
full  of  smoke.  Starting  up  in  agonized  alarm,  he  awoke 
Mrs.  Keene,  and  half-dressed,  by  the  red  light  which  glim- 
mered around  them,  they  rushed  together  to  Clarissa's 
chamber.  It  was  empty.  To  find  the  stairs  was  the  next 
thought;  but  at  the  very  top  they  met  the  dreaded  bee- 
finder  armed  with  a  prodigious  club  ! 

"  Oh  mercy  !  don't  murder  us  !  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Keene, 
falling  on  her  knees ;  while  her  husband,  whose  capsicum 
was  completely  roused,  began  pummelling  Ashburn  as  high 
as  he  could  reach,  bestowing  on  him  at  the  same  time,  in 
no  very  choice  terms,  his  candid  opinion  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  setting  people's  houses  on  fire,  by  way  of  revenge. 

"  Why,  you  're  both  as  crazy  as  loons  ! "  was  Mr.  Ash- 
burn's  polite  exclamation,  as  he  held  off  Mr.  Keene  at 
arm's  length.  "  I  was  comin'  up  o'  purpose  to  tell  you 
that  you  needn't  be  frightened.  It 's  only  the  ruff  o'  the 
shanty,  there,  —  the  kitchen,  as  you  call  it." 

"And  what  have  you  done  with  Clarissa?"  —  "Ay! 
where's  my  niece?"  cried  the  distracted  pair. 

"Where  is  she?  why,  down  stairs  to  be  sure,  takin'  care 
o'  the  traps  they  throw'd  out  o'  the  shanty.  I  was  out  a 
'coon-hunting,  and  see  the  light,  but  I  was  so  far  off  that 
they  'd  got  it  pretty  well  down  before  I  got  here.  That 


208     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

'ere  young  spark  of  Clary's  worked  like  a  beaver,  I  tell 
yei" 

"You  need  not  attempt,"  solemnly  began  Mr.  Keene, 
"  you  need  not  think  to  make  me  believe,  that  you  are  not 
the  man  that  set  my  house  on  fire.  I  know  your  revenge- 
ful temper;  I  have  heard  of  your  threats,  and  you  shall 
answer  for  all,  sir  !  before  you  're  a  day  older  !  " 

Ashburn  seemed  struck  dumb,  between  his  involuntary 
respect  for  Mr.  Keene's  age  and  character,  and  the  con- 
temptuous anger  with  which  his  accusations  filled  him. 
"  Well !  I  swan  !  "  said  he  after  a  pause  ;  "  but  here  comes 
Clary ;  she 's  got  common  sense ;  ask  her  how  the  fire 
happened." 

"  It 's  all  over  now,  uncle,"  she  exclaimed,  almost  breath- 
less, "  it  has  not  done  so  very  much  damage." 

"  Damage  !  "  said  Mrs.  Keene,  dolefully ;  "  we  shall 
never  get  things  clean  again  while  the  world  stands  !  " 

"  And  where  are  my  birds  ?  "  inquired  the  old  gentleman. 

"  All  safe  —  quite  safe ;  we  moved  them  into  the 
parlour." 

"We  !  who,  pray?  " 

"Oh!  the  neighbours  came,  you  know,  uncle;  and  — 
Mr.  Ashburn  —  " 

"Give  the  devil  his  due,"  interposed  Ashburn;  "you 
know  very  well  that  the  whole  concern  would  have  gone 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  young  feller." 

"What  young  fellow?  where?" 

"Why  here,"  said  Silas,  pulling  forward  our  young 
stranger ;  "  this  here  chap." 

"  Young  man,"  began  Mr.  Keene,  —  but  at  the  moment, 
up  came  somebody  with  a  light,  and  while  Clarissa  retreated 
behind  Mr.  Ashburn,  the  stranger  was  recognised  by  her 
aunt  and  uncle  as  Charles  Darwin. 

"Charles  !  what  on  earth  brought  you  here?" 

"  Ask  Clary,"  said  Ashburn,  with  grim  jocoseness. 

Mr.  Keene  turned  mechanically  to  obey;  but  Clarissa 
had  disappeared. 


CAROLINE   M.   S.   KIRKLAND     209 

"  Well !  I  guess  I  can  tell  you  something  about  it,  if 
nobody  else  won't,"  said  Ashburn ;  "  I  'm  something  of  a 
Yankee,  and  it 's  my  notion  that  there  was  some  sparkin' 
a  goin1  on  in  your  kitchin,  and  that  somehow  or  other  the 
young  folks  managed  to  set  it  a-fire." 

The  old  folks  looked  more  puzzled  than  ever.  "Do 
speak,  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Keene ;  "what  does  it  all  mean? 
Did  you  set  my  house  on  fire  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  must  have  had  some  hand  in  it,  sir,"  said 
Charles,  whose  self-possession  seemed  quite  to  have  deserted 
him. 

'•'  You  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Keene ;  "  and  I  've  been  laying 
it  to  this  man  !  " 

"  Yes  !  you  know  'd  I  owed  you  a  spite,  on  account  o' 
that  plaguy  bee-tree,"  said  Ashburn ;  "  a  guilty  conscience 
needs  no  accuser.  But  you  was  much  mistaken  if  you 
thought  I  was  sich  a  bloody-minded  villain  as  to  burn  your 
gimcrackery  for  that !  If  I  could  have  paid  you  for  it,  fair 
and  even,  I  'd  ha'  done  it  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  But 
I  don't  set  men's  houses  a-fire  when  I  get  mad  at  'em." 
"  But  you  threatened  vengeance,"  said  Mr.  Keene. 
"So  I  did,  but  that  was  when  I  expected  to  get  it  by 
law,  though ;  and  this  here  young  man  knows  that,  if  he  'd 
only  speak." 

Thus  adjured,  Charles  did  speak,  and  so  much  to  the 
purpose  that  it  did  not  take  many  minutes  to  convince  Mr. 
Keene  that  Ashburn's  evil-mindedness  was  bounded  by  the 
limits  of  the  law,  that  precious  privilege  of  the  Wolverine. 
But  there  was  still  the  mystery  of  Charles's  apparition,  and 
in  order  to  its  full  unravelment,  the  blushing  Clarissa  had 
to  be  enticed  from  her  hiding-place,  and  brought  to  con- 
fession. And  then  it  was  made  clear  that  she,  with  all  her 
innocent  looks,  was  the  moving  cause  of  the  mighty  mis- 
chief. She  it  was  who  encouraged  Charles  to  believe  that 
her  uncle's  anger  would  not  last  forever ;  and  this  had  led 
Charles  to  venture  into  the  neighbourhood ;  and  it  was 
while  consulting  together,  (on  this  particular  point,  of 
14 


210     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

course,)  that  they  managed  to  set  the  kitchen  curtain  on 
fire. 

These  things  occupied  some  time  in  explaining,  —  but 
they  were  at  length,  by  the  aid  of  words  and  more  eloquent 
blushes,  made  so  clear,  that  Mr.  Keene  concluded,  not 
only  to  new  roof  the  kitchen,  but  to  add  a  very  pretty  wing 
to  one  side  of  the  house.  And  at  the  present  time,  the 
steps  of  Charles  Darwin,  when  he  returns  from  a  surveying 
tour,  seek  the  little  gate  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  never  lived 
anywhere  else.  And  the  sweet  face  of  Clarissa  is  always 
there,  ready  to  welcome  him,  though  she  still  finds  plenty 
of  time  to  keep  in  order  the  complicated  affairs  of  both 
uncle  and  aunt 

Mr.  Keene  has  done  his  very  best  to  atone  for  his  inju- 
rious estimate  of  Wolverine  honour,  by  giving  constant 
employment  to  Ashburn  and  his  sons,  and  owning  him- 
self always  the  obliged  party,  without  which  concession  all 
he  could  do  would  avail  nothing.  And  Mrs.  Keene  and 
Clarissa  have  been  unwearied  in  their  kind  attentions  to 
the  family,  supplying  them  with  so  many  comforts  that 
most  of  them  have  got  rid  of  the  ague,  in  spite  of  them- 
selves. The  house  has  assumed  so  cheerful  an  appearance 
that  I  could  scarcely  recognise  it  for  the  same  squalid  den 
it  had  often  made  my  heart  ache  to  look  upon.  As  I  was 
returning  from  my  last  visit  there,  I  encountered  Mr.  Ash- 
burn,  and  remarked  to  him  how  very  comfortable  they 
seemed. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied ;  "  I  Ve  had  pretty  good  luck  lately ; 
but  I  'm  a  goin'  to  pull  up  stakes  and  move  to  Wisconsin. 
I  think  I  can  do  better,  further  West." 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN 
1828-1862 

THE  facts  of  O'Brien's  life  have  never  been  set  in  order.  Even 
the  date  of  his  birth  in  County  Limerick  is  uncertain.  His  un- 
timely death  was  at  Cumberland,  Virginia,  from  wounds  in  the 
Federal  service  early  in  the  Civil  War.  The  clearest  impression 
of  the  man  may  be  had  from  William  Winter's  introduction  to  a 
collection  of  his  verse  and  prose,  published  in  Boston,  1881. 
He  seems  very  like  the  Thackeray  Irishman  —  generous,  im- 
pulsive, extravagant  with  money  and  words.  In  the  geniality 
that  deserved  their  warm  affection  his  somewhat  Bohemian 
companions  found  a  touch  of  genius;  but  the  demands  of  a 
spendthrift  life  hand-to-mouth,  and  the  facility  with  which 
these  demands  could  be  met,  both  made  against  the  realisa- 
tion of  this  higher  promise.  That  it  remained  only  a  promise 
may  be  ascribed  also  to  his  dying  at  thirty-four.  Youth  is 
evident  especially  in  that  his  prose  is  imitative.  Poe  is  sug- 
gested almost  immediately ;  and  there  is  often  an  undertone 
of  Dickens,  the  Dickens  of  the  Christmas  stories.  In  other 
aspects,  too,  O'Brien's  writing  is  the  work,  not  of  a  craftsman, 
but  of  a  brilliant  amateur.  The  fancies  that  he  threw  upon 
the  periodical  press  are  never  quite  achieved.  Considered  as 
materials,  these  fancies  vary  in  value  all  the  way  from  the  con- 
ceptions of  The  Diamond  Lens  and  The  Wondersmith,  which 
are  not  far  from  pure  imagination,  to  Tommatoo  and  My  Wife's 
Tempter,  which  are  mere  melodrama.  But  whatever  their  po- 
tential value,  O'Brien's  hand  was  not  steady  enough  to  bring  it 
out.  The  main  scene  of  The  Diamond  Lens,  the  microscopic 
vision,  is  as  delicate  as  it  is  original,  and  as  vivid  as  it  is  deli- 
cate; but  the  preparation  for  it  is  fumbling,  and  the  solution 
unsatisfying.  The  tale  printed  below  is  exceptionally  compact 
in  structure  and  careful  in  detail.  The  obvious  general  resem- 
blance to  Poe's  tales  of  physical  horror  should  not  obscure 


212     AMERICAN   SHORT  STORIES 

certain  original  merits.  The  note  of  realism,  for  instance,  is 
not  merely  Poe's  verisimilitude ;  it  expresses  a  differentiation 
of  character  more  like  that  of  Kipling's  similar  study,  The  End 
of  the  Passage.  Prof.  Brander  Matthews  (Philosophy  of  the 
Short-Story,  page  68)  points  out  the  similarity  in  conception  of 
Maupassant's  Le  Horla. 

Writing  much  prose  and  verse  for  many  magazines  now  long 
passed  away,  and  a  play  or  two  for  Wallack,  O'Brien  found  his 
steadiest  employment  with  the  Harpers  between  1853  and  1858, 
and  his  most  congenial  life  with  the  younger  journalists  and 
artists  of  New  York. 


WHAT  WAS   IT?    A  MYSTERY 


[From  "  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine,"  March,  1859  ;  volume  xviii, 
page  504.  The  signature  is  Harry  Escott] 

IT  is,  I  confess,  with  considerable  diffidence  that  I  ap- 
proach the  strange  narrative  which  I  am  about  to  relate. 
The  events  which  I  purpose  detailing  are  of  so  extraor- 
dinary and  unheard-of  a  character  that  I  am  quite  prepared 
to  meet  with  an  unusual  amount  of  incredulity  and  scorn. 
I  accept  all  such  beforehand.  I  have,  I  trust,  the  literary 
courage  to  face  unbelief.  I  have,  after  mature  considera- 
tion, resolved  to  narrate,  in  as  simple  and  straightforward 
a  manner  as  I  can  compass,  some  facts  that  passed  under 
my  observation  in  the  month  of  July  last,  and  which,  in 
the  annals  of  the  mysteries  of  physical  science,  are  wholly 
unparalleled. 

I  live  at  No.  —  Twenty- sixth  Street,  in  this  city.  The 
house  is  in  some  respects  a  curious  one.  It  has  enjoyed 
for  the  last  two  years  the  reputation  of  being  haunted.  It 
is  a  large  and  stately  residence,  surrounded  by  what  was 
once  a  garden,  but  which  is  now  only  a  green  enclosure 
used  for  bleaching  clothes.  The  dry  basin  of  what  has  been 
a  fountain,  and  a  few  fruit-trees,  ragged  and  unpruned, 
indicate  that  this  spot,  in  past  days,  was  a  pleasant,  shady 
retreat,  filled  with  fruits  and  flowers  and  the  sweet  murmur 
of  waters. 

The  house  is  very  spacious.  A  hall  of  noble  size  leads 
to  a  vast  spiral  staircase  winding  through  its  centre,  while 
the  various  apartments  are  of  imposing  dimensions.  It  was 
213 


2i4     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

built  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  since  by  Mr.  A ,  the 

well-known  New  York  merchant,  who  five  years  ago  threw 
the  commercial  world  into  convulsions  by  a  stupendous 

bank  fraud.     Mr.  A ,  as  every  one  knows,  escaped  to 

Europe,  and  died  not  long  after  of  a  broken  heart.  Almost 
immediately  after  the  news  of  his  decease  reached  this 
country,  and  was  verified,  the  report  spread  in  Twenty-sixth 
Street  that  No.  —  was  haunted.  Legal  measures  had  dis- 
possessed the  widow  of  its  former  owner,  and  it  was  in- 
habited merely  by  a  care-taker  and  his  wife,  placed  there  by 
the  house-agent  into  whose  hands  it  had  passed  for  purposes 
of  renting  or  sale.  These  people  declared  that  they  were 
troubled  with  unnatural  noises.  Doors  were  opened  with- 
out any  visible  agency.  The  remnants  of  furniture  scattered 
through  the  various  rooms  were,  during  the  night,  piled  one 
upon  the  other  by  unknown  hands.  Invisible  feet  passed 
up  and  down  the  stairs  in  broad  daylight,  accompanied  by 
the  rustle  of  unseen  silk  dresses,  and  the  gliding  of  viewless 
hands  along  the  massive  balusters.  The  care-taker  and  his 
wife  declared  they  would  live  there  no  longer.  The  house- 
agent  laughed,  dismissed  them,  and  put  others  in  their  place. 
The  noises  and  supernatural  manifestations  continued.  The 
neighborhood  caught  up  the  story,  and  the  house  remained 
untenanted  for  three  years.  Several  persons  negotiated  for 
it ;  but  somehow,  always  before  the  bargain  was  closed,  they 
heard  the  unpleasant  rumors,  and  declined  to  treat  any 
further. 

It  was  in  this  state  of  things  that  my  landlady  —  who  at 
that  time  kept  a  boarding-house  in  Bleecker  Street,  and 
who  wished  to  move  farther  up  town  —  conceived  the  bold 
idea  of  renting  No.  —  Twenty-sixth  Street.  Happening  to 
have  in  her  house  rather  a  plucky  and  philosophical  set  of 
boarders,  she  laid  her  scheme  before  us,  stating  candidly 
everything  she  had  heard  respecting  the  ghostly  qualities 
of  the  establishment  to  which  she  wished  to  remove  us. 
With  the  exception  of  two  timid  persons,  —  a  sea-captain 
and  a  returned  Californian,  who  immediately  gave  notice 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  215 

that  they  would  leave,  —  all  of  Mrs.  Moffat's  guests  declared 
that  they  would  accompany  her  in  her  chivalric  incursion 
into  the  abode  of  spirits. 

Our  removal  was  effected  in  the  month  of  May,  and  we 
were  all  charmed  with  our  new  residence.  The  portion  of 
Twenty-sixth  Street  where  our  house  is  situated  —  between 
Seventh  and  Eighth  Avenues  —  is  one  of  the  pleasantest 
localities  in  New  York.  The  gardens  back  of  the  houses, 
running  down  nearly  to  the  Hudson,  form,  in  the  summer 
time,  a  perfect  avenue  of  verdure.  The  air  is  pure  and 
invigorating,  sweeping,  as  it  does,  straight  across  the  river 
from  the  Weehawken  heights,  and  even  the  ragged  garden 
which  surrounded  the  house  on  two  sides,  although  display- 
ing on  washing  days  rather  too  much  clothes-line,  still  gave 
us  a  piece  of  green  sward  to  look  at,  and  a  cool  retreat  in 
the  summer  evenings,  where  we  smoked  our  cigars  in  the 
dusk,  and  watched  the  fire-flies  flashing  their  dark-lanterns 
in  the  long  grass. 

Of  course  we  had  no  sooner  established  ourselves  at  No. 
—  than  we  began  to  expect  the  ghosts.  We  absolutely 
awaited  their  advent  with  eagerness.  Our  dinner  conver- 
sation was  supernatural.  One  of  the  boarders,  who  had 
purchased  Mrs.  Crowe's  "  Night  Side  of  Nature  "  for  his 
own  private  delectation,  was  regarded  as  a  public  enemy  by 
the  entire  household  for  not  having  bought  twenty  copies. 
The  man  led  a  life  of  supreme  wretchedness  while  he  was 
reading  this  volume.  A  system  of  espionage  was  established, 
of  which  he  was  the  victim.  If  he  incautiously  laid  the 
book  down  for  an  instant  and  left  the  room,  it  was  immedi- 
ately seized  and  read  aloud  in  secret  places  to  a  select  few. 
I  found  myself  a  person  of  immense  importance,  it  having 
leaked  out  that  I  was  tolerably  well  versed  in  the  history 
of  supernaturalism,  and  had  once  written  a  story,  entitled 
"  The  Pot  of  Tulips,"  for  Harper's  Monthly,  the  foundation 
of  which  was  a  ghost.  If  a  table  or  a  wainscot  panel  hap- 
pened to  warp  when  we  were  assembled  in  the  large 
drawing-room,  there  was  an  instant  silence,  and  every  one 


216     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

was  prepared  for  an  immediate  clanking  of  chains  and  a 
spectral  form. 

After  a  month  of  psychological  excitement,  it  was  with 
the  utmost  dissatisfaction  that  we  were  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge that  nothing  in  the  remotest  degree  approaching  the 
supernatural  had  manifested  itself.  Once  the  black  butler 
asseverated  that  his  candle  had  been  blown  out  by  some 
invisible  agency  while  he  was  undressing  himself  for  the 
night ;  but  as  I  had  more  than  once  discovered  this  col- 
ored gentleman  in  a  condition  when  one  candle  must  have 
appeared  to  him  like  two,  I  thought  it  possible  that,  by  going 
a  step  farther  in  his  potations,  he  might  have  reversed  this 
phenomenon,  and  seen  no  candle  at  all  where  he  ought  to 
have  beheld  one. 

Things  were  in  this  state  when  an  incident  took  place  so 
awful  and  inexplicable  in  its  character  that  my  reason  fairly 
reels  at  the  bare  memory  of  the  occurrence.  It  was  the 
tenth  of  July.  After  dinner  was  over  I  repaired,  with  my 
friend  Dr.  Hammond,  to  the  garden  to  smoke  my  evening 
pipe.  Independent  of  certain  mental  sympathies  which 
existed  between  the  Doctor  and  myself,  we  were  linked  to- 
gether by  a  secret  vice.  We  both  smoked  opium.  We  knew 
each  other's  secret,  and  respected  it.  We  enjoyed  together 
that  wonderful  expansion  of  thought,  that  marvellous  inten- 
sifying of  the  perceptive  faculties,  that  boundless  feeling  of 
existence  when  we  seem  to  have  points  of  contact  with  the 
whole  universe,  —  in  short,  that  unimaginable  spiritual  bliss, 
which  I  would  not  surrender  for  a  throne,  and  which  I  hope 
you,  reader,  will  never  —  never  taste. 

Those  hours  of  opium  happiness  which  the  Doctor  and 
I  spent  together  in  secret  were  regulated  with  a  scientific 
accuracy.  We  did  not  blindly  smoke  the  drug  of  Paradise, 
and  leave  our  dreams  to  chance.  While  smoking,  we  care- 
fully steered  our  conversation  through  the  brightest  and 
calmest  channels  of  thought.  We  talked  of  the  East,  and 
endeavored  to  recall  the  magical  panorama  of  its  glowing 
scenery.  We  criticised  the  most  sensuous  poets,  those 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  217 

who  painted  life  ruddy  with  health,  brimming  with  passion, 
happy  in  the  possession  of  youth  and  strength  and  beauty. 
If  we  talked  of  Shakespeare's  "  Tempest,"  we  lingered  over 
Ariel,  and  avoided  Caliban.  Like  the  Gebers,  we  turned 
our  faces  to  the  east,  and  saw  only  the  sunny  side  of  the 
world. 

This  skilful  coloring  of  our  train  of  thought  produced  in 
our  subsequent  visions  a  corresponding  tone.  The  splen- 
dors of  Arabian  fairy-land  dyed  our  dreams.  We  paced 
that  narrow  strip  of  grass  with  the  tread  and  port  of  kings. 
The  song  of  the  rana  arborea,  while  he  clung  to  the  bark 
of  the  ragged  plum-tree,  sounded  like  the  strains  of  divine 
orchestras.  Houses,  walls,  and  streets  melted  like  rain- 
clouds,  and  vistas  of  unimaginable  glory  stretched  away 
before  us.  It  was  a  rapturous  companionship.  We  en- 
joyed the  vast  delight  more  perfectly  because,  even  in  our 
most  ecstatic  moments,  we  were  conscious  of  each  other's 
presence.  Our  pleasures,  while  individual,  were  still  twin, 
vibrating  and  moving  in  musical  accord. 

On  the  evening  in  question,  the  tenth  of  July,  the  Doctor 
and  myself  found  ourselves  in  an  unusually  metaphysical 
mood.  We  lit  our  large  meerschaums,  filled  with  fine  Turk- 
ish tobacco,  in  the  core  of  which  burned  a  little  black  nut 
of  opium,  that,  like  the  nut  in  the  fairy  tale,  held  within  its 
narrow  limits  wonders  beyond  the  reach  of  kings ;  we  paced 
to  and  fro,  conversing.  A  strange  perversity  dominated  the 
currents  of  our  thought.  They  would  not  flow  through  the 
sun-lit  channels  into  which  we  strove  to  divert  them.  For 
some  unaccountable  reason  they  constantly  diverged  into 
dark  and  lonesome  beds,  where  a  continual  gloom  brooded. 
It  was  in  vain  that,  after  our  old  fashion,  we  flung  ourselves 
on  the  shores  of  the  East,  and  talked  of  its  gay  bazaars,  of 
the  splendors  of  the  time  of  Haroun,  of  harems  and  golden 
palaces.  Black  afreets  continually  arose  from  the  depths  of 
our  talk,  and  expanded,  like  the  one  the  fisherman  released 
from  the  copper  vessel,  until  they  blotted  everything  bright 
from  our  vision.  Insensibly,  we  yielded  to  the  occult  force 


218     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

that  swayed  us,  and  indulged  in  gloomy  speculation.  We 
had  talked  some  time  upon  the  proneness  of  the  human 
mind  to  mysticism,  and  the  almost  universal  love  of  the 
Terrible,  when  Hammond  suddenly  said  to  me,  "  What  do 
you  consider  to  be  the  greatest  element  of  Terror?  " 

The  question,  I  own,  puzzled  me.  That  many  things 
were  terrible,  I  knew.  Stumbling  over  a  corpse  in  the 
dark ;  beholding,  as  I  once  did,  a  woman  floating  down  a 
deep  and  rapid  river,  with  wildly-lifted  arms,  and  awful, 
upturned  face,  uttering,  as  she  sank,  shrieks  that  rent  one's 
heart,  while  we,  the  spectators,  stood  frozen  at  a  window 
which  overhung  the  river  at  a  height  of  sixty  feet,  unable  to 
make  the  slightest  effort  to  save  her,  but  dumbly  watching 
her  last  supreme  agony  and  her  disappearance.  A  shattered 
wreck,  with  no  life  visible,  encountered  floating  listlessly  on 
the  ocean,  is  a  terrible  object,  for  it  suggests  a  huge  terror, 
the  proportions  of  which  are  vailed.  But  it  now  struck  me 
for  the  first  time  that  there  must  be  one  great  and  ruling 
embodiment  of  fear,  a  King  of  Terrors  to  which  all  others 
must  succumb.  What  might  it  be  ?  To  what  train  of  cir- 
cumstances would  it  owe  its  existence  ? 

"  I  confess,  Hammond,"  I  replied  to  my  friend,  "  I  never 
considered  the  subject  before.  That  there  must  be  one 
Something  more  terrible  than  any  other  thing,  I  feel.  I 
cannot  attempt,  however,  even  the  most  vague  definition." 

"  I  am  somewhat  like  you,  Harry,"  he  answered.  "  I 
feel  my  capacity  to  experience  a  terror  greater  than  any- 
thing yet  conceived  by  the  human  mind ;  —  something 
combining  in  fearful  and  unnatural  amalgamation  hitherto 
supposed  incompatible  elements.  The  calling  of  the  voices 
in  Brockden  Brown's  novel  of  '  Wieland '  is  awful ;  so  is 
the  picture  of  the  Dweller  of  the  Threshold,  in  Bulwer's 
'  Zanoni ' ;  but,"  he  added,  shaking  his  head  gloomily, 
"  there  is  something  more  horrible  still  than  these." 

"  Look  here,  Hammond,"  I  rejoined,  "  let  us  drop  this 
kind  of  talk,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  We  shall  suffer  for  it, 
depend  on  it." 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  219 

"  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with  me  to-night," 
he  replied,  "  but  my  brain  is  running  upon  all  sorts  of 
weird  and  awful  thoughts.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  write  a 
story  like  Hoffman,  to-night,  if  I  were  only  master  of  a 
literary  style." 

"  Well,  if  we  are  going  to  be  Hoffmanesque  in  our  talk, 
I  'm  off  to  bed.  Opium  and  nightmares  should  never  be 
brought  together.  How  sultry  it  is !  Good-night,  Ham- 
mond." 

"Good-night,  Harry.     Pleasant  dreams  to  you." 

"To  you,  gloomy  wretch,  afreets,  ghouls,  and  enchant- 
ers." 

We  parted,  and  each  sought  his  respective  chamber.  I 
undressed  quickly  and  got  into  bed,  taking  with  me,  accord- 
ing to  my  usual  custom,  a  book,  over  which  I  generally  read 
myself  to  sleep.  I  opened  the  volume  as  soon  as  I  had 
laid  my  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  instantly  flung  it  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  It  was  Goudon's  "  History  of 
Monsters "  —  a  curious  French  work,  which  I  had  lately 
imported  from  Paris,  but  which,  in  the  state  of  mind  I  had 
then  reached,  was  anything  but  an  agreeable  companion.  I 
resolved  to  go  to  sleep  at  once ;  so,  turning  down  my  gas 
until  nothing  but  a  little  blue  point  of  light  glimmered  on 
the  top  of  the  tube,  I  composed  myself  to  rest. 

The  room  was  in  total  darkness.  The  atom  of  gas  that 
still  remained  lighted  did  not  illuminate  a  distance  of  three 
inches  round  the  burner.  I  desperately  drew  my  arm 
across  my  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  even  the  darkness,  and 
tried  to  think  of  nothing.  It  was  in  vain.  The  con- 
founded themes  touched  on  by  Hammond  in  the  garden 
kept  obtruding  themselves  on  my  brain.  I  battled  against 
them.  I  erected  ramparts  of  would-be  blankness  of  intel- 
lect to  keep  them  out.  They  still  crowded  upon  me. 
While  I  was  lying  still  as  a  corpse,  hoping  that  by  a  per- 
fect physical  inaction  I  should  hasten  mental  repose,  an 
awful  incident  occurred.  A  Something  dropped,  as  it 
seemed,  from  the  ceiling,  plumb  upon  my  chest,  and  the 


220     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

next  instant  I  felt  two  bony  hands  encircling  my  throat, 
endeavoring  to  choke  me. 

I  am  no  coward,  and  am  possessed  of  considerable  phys- 
ical strength.  The  suddenness  of  the  attack,  instead  of 
stunning  me,  strung  every  nerve  to  its  highest  tension. 
My  body  acted  from  instinct,  before  my  brain  had  time 
to  realize  the  terrors  of  my  position.  In  an  instant  I 
wound  two  muscular  arms  around  the  creature,  and 
squeezed  it,  with  all  the  strength  of  despair,  against 
my  chest.  In  a  few  seconds  the  bony  hands  that  had 
fastened  on  my  throat  loosened  their  hold,  and  I  was  free 
to  breathe  once  more.  Then  commenced  a  struggle  of 
awful  intensity.  Immersed  in  the  most  profound  darkness, 
totally  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  Thing  by  which  I  was 
so  suddenly  attacked,  finding  my  grasp  slipping  every  mo- 
ment, by  reason,  it  seemed  to  me,  of  the  entire  nakedness 
of  my  assailant,  bitten  with  sharp  teeth  in  the  shoulder, 
neck,  and  chest,  having  every  moment  to  protect  my  throat 
against  a  pair  of  sinewy,  agile  hands,  which  my  utmost 
efforts  could  not  confine  —  these  were  a  combination  of 
circumstances  to  combat  which  required  all  the  strength 
and  skill  and  courage  that  I  possessed. 

At  last,  after  a  silent,  deadly,  exhausting  struggle,  I  got 
my  assailant  under  by  a  series  of  incredible  efforts  of 
strength.  Once  pinned,  with  my  knee  on  what  I  made 
out  to  be  its  chest,  I  knew  that  I  was  victor.  I  rested  for 
a  moment  to  breathe.  I  heard  the  creature  beneath  me 
panting  in  the  darkness,  and  felt  the  violent  throbbing  of 
a  heart.  It  was  apparently  as  exhausted  as  I  was;  that 
was  one  comfort.  At  this  moment  I  remembered  that  I 
usually  placed  under  my  pillow,  before  going  to  bed,  a  large 
yellow  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  for  use  during  the  night. 
I  felt  for  it  instantly;  it  was  there.  In  a  few  seconds 
more  I  had,  after  a  fashion,  pinioned  the  creature's  arms. 

I  now  felt  tolerably  secure.  There  was  nothing  more  to 
be  done  but  to  turn  on  the  gas,  and,  having  first  seen  what 
my  midnight  assailant  was  like,  arouse  the  household.  I 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  221 

will  confess  to  being  actuated  by  a  certain  pride  in  not 
giving  the  alarm  before ;  I  wished  to  make  the  capture 
alone  and  unaided. 

Never  losing  my  hold  for  an  instant,  I  slipped  from  the 
bed  to  the  floor,  dragging  my  captive  with  me.  I  had  but 
a  few  steps  to  make  to  reach  the  gas-burner ;  these  I  made 
with  the  greatest  caution,  holding  the  creature  in  a  grip 
like  a  vice.  At  last  I  got  within  arm's-length  of  the  tiny 
speck  of  blue  light  which  told  me  where  the  gas-burner  lay. 
Quick  as  lightning  I  released  my  grasp  with  one  hand  and 
let  on  the  full  flood  of  light.  Then  I  turned  to  look  at  my 
captive. 

I  cannot  even  attempt  to  give  any  definition  of  my  sen- 
sations the  instant  after  I  turned  on  the  gas.  I  suppose  I 
must  have  shrieked  with  terror,  for  in  less  than  a  minute 
afterward  my  room  was  crowded  with  the  inmates  of  the 
house.  I  shudder  now  as  I  think  of  that  awful  moment.  / 
saw  nothing !  Yes ;  I  had  one  arm  firmly  clasped  round  a 
breathing,  panting,  corporeal  shape,  my  other  hand  gripped 
with  all  its  strength  a  throat  as  warm,  and  apparently 
fleshly,  as  my  own ;  and  yet,  with  this  living  substance  in 
my  grasp,  with  its  body  pressed  against  my  own,  and  all  in 
the  bright  glare  of  a  large  jet  of  gas,  I  absolutely  beheld 
nothing  !  Not  even  an  outline,  —  a  vapor  ! 

I  do  not,  even  at  this  hour,  realize  the  situation  in  which 
I  found  myself.  I  cannot  recall  the  astounding  incident 
thoroughly.  Imagination  in  vain  tries  to  compass  the 
awful  paradox. 

It  breathed.  I  felt  its  warm  breath  upon  my  cheek.  It 
struggled  fiercely.  It  had  hands.  They  clutched  me.  Its 
skin  was  smooth,  like  my  own.  There  it  lay,  pressed  close 
up  against  me,  solid  as  stone,  —  and  yet  utterly  invisible  ! 

I  wonder  that  I  did  not  faint  or  go  mad  on  the  instant. 
Some  wonderful  instinct  must  have  sustained  me ;  for,  ab- 
solutely, in  place  of  loosening  my  hold  on  the  terrible 
Enigma,  I  seemed  to  gain  an  additional  strength  in  my 
moment  of  horror,  and  tightened  my  grasp  with  such 


222     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

wonderful  force  that  I  felt  the  creature  shivering  with 
agony. 

Just  then  Hammond  entered  my  room  at  the  head  of  the 
household.  As  soon  as  he  beheld  my  face  —  which,  I  sup- 
pose, must  have  been  an  awful  sight  to  look  at  —  he  has- 
tened forward,  crying,  "  Great  heaven,  Harry  !  what  has 
happened?" 

"  Hammond  !  Hammond  !  "  I  cried,  "  come  here.  Oh  ! 
this  is  awful !  I  have  been  attacked  in  bed  by  something 
or  other,  which  I  have  hold  of;  but  I  can't  see  it  —  I 
can't  see  it  1 " 

Hammond,  doubtless  struck  by  the  unfeigned  horror 
expressed  in  my  countenance,  made  one  or  two  steps  for- 
ward with  an  anxious  yet  puzzled  expression.  A  very 
audible  titter  burst  from  the  remainder  of  my  visitors. 
This  suppressed  laughter  made  me  furious.  To  laugh  at 
a  human  being  in  my  position  !  It  was  the  worst  species 
of  cruelty.  Now,  I  can  understand  why  the  appearance  of 
a  man  struggling  violently,  as  it  would  seem,  with  an  airy 
nothing,  and  calling  for  assistance  against  a  vision,  should 
have  appeared  ludicrous.  Then,  so  great  was  my  rage 
against  the  mocking  crowd  that  had  I  the  power  I  would 
have  stricken  them  dead  where  they  stood. 

"  Hammond  !  Hammond  !  "  I  cried  again,  despairingly, 
"  for  God's  sake  come  to  me.  I  can  hold  the  —  the  Thing 
but  a  short  while  longer.  It  is  overpowering  me.  Help 
me  !  Help  me  ! " 

"  Harry,"  whispered  Hammond,  approaching  me,  "  you 
have  been  smoking  too  much  opium." 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Hammond,  that  this  is  no  vision," 
I  answered,  in  the  same  low  tone.  "  Don't  you  see 
how  it  shakes  my  whole  frame  with  its  struggles?  If 
you  don't  believe  me,  convince  yourself.  Feel  it,  — 
touch  it." 

Hammond  advanced  and  laid  his  hand  in  the  spot  I 
indicated.  A  wild  cry  of  horror  burst  from  him.  He 
had  felt  it ! 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  223 

In  a  moment  he  had  discovered  somewhere  in  my  room 
a  long  piece  of  cord,  and  was  the  next  instant  winding  it 
and  knotting  it  about  the  body  of  the  unseen  being  that 
I  clasped  in  my  arms. 

"  Harry,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  agitated  voice,  for, 
though  he  preserved  his  presence  of  mind,  he  was  deeply 
moved,  "  Harry,  it 's  all  safe  now.  You  may  let  go,  old 
fellow,  if  you  're  tired.  The  Thing  can't  move." 

I  was  utterly  exhausted,  and  I  gladly  loosed  my  hold. 

Hammond  stood  holding  the  ends  of  the  cord  that 
bound  the  Invisible,  twisted  round  his  hand,  while  before 
him,  self-supporting  as  it  were,  he  beheld  a  rope  laced  and 
interlaced,  and  stretching  tightly  round  a  vacant  space.  I 
never  saw  a  man  look  so  thoroughly  stricken  with  awe. 
Nevertheless  his  face  expressed  all  the  courage  and  deter- 
mination which  I  knew  him  to  possess.  His  lips,  although 
white,  were  set  firmly,  and  one  could  perceive  at  a  glance 
that,  although  stricken  with  fear,  he  was  not  daunted. 

The  confusion  that  ensued  among  the  guests  of  the 
house  who  were  witnesses  of  this  extraordinary  scene  be- 
tween Hammond  and  myself  —  who  beheld  the  panto- 
mime of  binding  this  struggling  Something,  —  who  beheld 
me  almost  sinking  from  physical  exhaustion  when  my  task 
of  jailer  was  over — the  confusion  and  terror  that  took 
possession  of  the  by-standers,  when  they  saw  all  this,  was 
beyond  description.  The  weaker  ones  fled  from  the  apart- 
ment. The  few  who  remained  clustered  near  the  door, 
and  could  not  be  induced  to  approach  Hammond  and  his 
Charge.  Still  incredulity  broke  out  through  their  terror. 
They  had  not  the  courage  to  satisfy  themselves,  and  yet 
they  doubted.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  begged  of  some  of 
the  men  to  come  near  and  convince  themselves  by  touch 
of  the  existence  in  that  room  of  a  living  being  which  was 
invisible.  They  were  incredulous,  but  did  not  dare  to 
undeceive  themselves.  How  could  a  solid,  living,  breath- 
ing body  be  invisible,  they  asked.  My  reply  was  this.  I 
gave  a  sign  to  Hammond,  and  both  of  us  —  conquering 


224     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

our  fearful  repugnance  to  touch  the  invisible  creature  — 
lifted  it  from  the  ground,  manacled  as  it  was,  and  took 
it  to  my  bed.  Its  weight  was  about  that  of  a  boy  of 
fourteen. 

"  Now,  my  friends,"  I  said,  as  Hammond  and  myself 
held  the  creature  suspended  over  the  bed,  "  I  can  give  you 
self-evident  proof  that  here  is  a  solid,  ponderable  body 
which,  nevertheless,  you  cannot  see.  Be  good  enough  to 
watch  the  surface  of  the  bed  attentively." 

I  was  astonished  at  my  own  courage  in  treating  this 
strange  event  so  calmly;  but  I  had  recovered  from  my 
first  terror,  and  felt  a  sort  of  scientific  pride  in  the  affair 
which  dominated  every  other  feeling. 

The  eyes  of  the  bystanders  were  immediately  fixed  on 
my  bed.  At  a  given  signal  Hammond  and  I  let  the  crea- 
ture fall.  There  was  the  dull  sound  of  a  heavy  body 
alighting  on  a  soft  mass.  The  timbers  of  the  bed  creaked. 
A  deep  impression  marked  itself  distinctly  on  the  pillow, 
and  on  the  bed  itself.  The  crowd  who  witnessed  this  gave 
a  sort  of  low,  universal  cry,  and  rushed  from  the  room. 
Hammond  and  I  were  left  alone  with  our  Mystery. 

We  remained  silent  for  some  time,  listening  to  the  low, 
irregular  breathing  of  the  creature  on  the  bed,  and  watch- 
ing the  rustle  of  the  bed-clothes  as  it  impotently  struggled 
to  free  itself  from  confinement.  Then  Hammond  spoke. 

"  Harry,  this  is  awful." 

"  Ay,  awful." 

"  But  not  unaccountable." 

"  Not  unaccountable  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Such  a 
thing  has  never  occurred  since  the  birth  of  the  world.  I 
know  not  what  to  think,  Hammond.  God  grant  that  I  am 
not  mad,  and  that  this  is  not  an  insane  fantasy  !  " 

"  Let  us  reason  a  little,  Harry.  Here  is  a  solid  body 
which  we  touch,  but  which  we  cannot  see.  The  fact  is  so 
unusual  that  it  strikes  us  with  terror.  Is  there  no  parallel, 
though,  for  such  a  phenomenon?  Take  a  piece  of  pure 
glass.  It  is  tangible  and  transparent.  A  certain  chemical 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  225 

coarseness  is  all  that  prevents  its  being  so  entirely  trans- 
parent as  to  be  totally  invisible.  It  is  not  theoretically 
impossible,  mind  you,  to  make  a  glass  which  shall  not  reflect 
a  single  ray  of  light  —  a  glass  so  pure  and  homogeneous  in 
its  atoms  that  the  rays  from  the  sun  shall  pass  through  it  as 
they  do  through  the  air,  refracted  but  not  reflected.  We  do 
not  see  the  air,  and  yet  we  feel  it." 

"  That 's  all  very  well,  Hammond,  but  these  are  inani- 
mate substances.  Glass  does  not  breathe,  air  does  not 
breathe.  This  thing  has  a  heart  that  palpitates,  —  a  will 
that  moves  it, —  lungs  that  play,  and  inspire  and  respire." 

"  You  forget  the  strange  phenomena  of  which  we  have  so 
often  heard  of  late,"  answered  the  Doctor,  gravely.  "  At 
the  meetings  called  '  spirit  circles,'  invisible  hands  have  been 
thrust  into  the  hands  of  those  persons  round  the  table  — 
warm,  fleshly  hands  that  seemed  to  pulsate  with  mortal 
life." 

"  What?     Do  you  think,  then,  that  this  thing  is  —  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  was  the  solemn  reply;  "  but 
please  the  gods  I  will,  with  your  assistance,  thoroughly 
investigate  it." 

We  watched  together,  smoking  many  pipes,  all  night 
long,  by  the  bedside  of  the  unearthly  being  that  tossed 
and  panted  until  it  was  apparently  wearied  out.  Then  we 
learned  by  the  low,  regular  breathing  that  it  slept. 

The  next  morning  the  house  was  all  astir.  The  boarders 
congregated  on  the  landing  outside  my  room,  and  Ham- 
mond and  myself  were  lions.  We  had  to  answer  a  thousand 
questions  as  to  the  state  of  our  extraordinary  prisoner,  for 
as  yet  not  one  person  in  the  house  except  ourselves  could 
be  induced  to  set  foot  in  the  apartment. 

The  creature  was  awake.  This  was  evidenced  by  the 
convulsive  manner  in  which  the  bed-clothes  were  moved  in 
its  efforts  to  escape.  There  was  something  truly  terrible  in 
beholding,  as  it  were,  those  second-hand  indications  of  the 
terrible  writhings  and  agonized  struggles  for  liberty  which 
themselves  were  invisible. 

15 


226     AMERICAN    SHORT    STORIES 

Hammond  and  myself  had  racked  our  brains  during  the 
long  night  to  discover  some  means  by  which  we  might 
realize  the  shape  and  general  appearance  of  the  Enigma. 
As  well  as  we  could  make  out  by  passing  our  hands  over 
the  creature's  form,  its  outlines  and  lineaments  were  human. 
There  was  a  mouth ;  a  round,  smooth  head  without  hair ;  a 
nose,  which,  however,  was  little  elevated  above  the  cheeks ; 
and  its  hands  and  feet  felt  like  those  of  a  boy.  At  first  we 
thought  of  placing  the  being  on  a  smooth  surface  and  trac- 
ing its  outline  with  chalk,  as  shoemakers  trace  the  outline 
of  the  foot.  This  plan  was  given  up  as  being  of  no  value. 
Such  an  outline  would  give  not  the  slightest  idea  of  its 
conformation. 

A  happy  thought  struck  me.  We  would  take  a  cast  of  it 
in  plaster  of  Paris.  This  would  give  us  the  solid  figure, 
and  satisfy  all  our  wishes.  But  how  to  do  it?  The  move- 
ments of  the  creature  would  disturb  the  setting  of  the 
plastic  covering,  and  distort  the  mould.  Another  thought. 
Why  not  give  it  chloroform  ?  It  had  respiratory  organs  — 
that  was  evident  by  its  breathing.  Once  reduced  to  a  state 
of  insensibility,  we  could  do  with  it  what  we  would.  Doctor 
X was  sent  for ;  and  after  the  worthy  physician  had  re- 
covered from  the  first  shock  of  amazement,  he  proceeded 
to  administer  the  chloroform.  In  three  minutes  afterward 
we  were  enabled  to  remove  the  fetters  from  the  creature's 
body,  and  a  well-known  modeler  of  this  city  was  busily 
engaged  in  covering  the  invisible  form  with  the  moist  clay. 
In  five  minutes  more  we  had  a  mould,  and  before  evening 
a  rough  fac- simile  of  the  Mystery.  It  was  shaped  like  a 
man,  —  distorted,  uncouth,  and  horrible,  but  still  a  man. 
It  was  small,  not  over  four  feet  and  some  inches  in  height, 
and  its  limbs  revealed  a  muscular  development  that  was 
unparalleled.  Its  face  surpassed  in  hideousness  anything 
I  had  ever  seen.  Gustave  Dore,  or  Callot,  or  Tony 
Johannot,  never  conceived  anything  so  horrible.  There 
is  a  face  in  one  of  the  latter's  illustrations  to  "  Un  Voyage 
ou  il  vous  plaira"  which  somewhat  approaches  the  coun- 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN  227 

tenance  of  this  creature,  but  does  not  equal  it.  It  was  the 
physiognomy  of  what  I  should  have  fancied  a  ghoul  to 
be.  It  looked  as  if  it  was  capable  of  feeding  on  human 
flesh. 

Having  satisfied  our  curiosity,  and  bound  every  one  in 
the  house  to  secrecy,  it  became  a  question,  what  was  to  be 
done  with  our  Enigma?  It  was  impossible  that  we  should 
keep  such  a  horror  in  our  house ;  it  was  equally  impossible 
that  such  an  awful  being  should  be  let  loose  upon  the  world. 
I  confess  that  I  would  have  gladly  voted  for  the  creature's 
destruction.  But  who  would  shoulder  the  responsibility? 
Who  would  undertake  the  execution  of  this  horrible  sem- 
blance of  a  human  being  ?  Day  after  day  this  question  was 
deliberated  gravely.  The  boarders  all  left  the  house.  Mrs. 
Moffat  was  in  despair,  and  threatened  Hammond  and  my- 
self with  all  sorts  of  legal  penalties  if  we  did  not  remove  the 
Horror.  Our  answer  was,  "  We  will  go  if  you  like,  but  we 
decline  taking  this  creature  with  us.  Remove  it  yourself  if 
you  please.  It  appeared  in  your  house.  On  you  the  re- 
sponsibility rests."  To  this  there  was,  of  course,  no  answer. 
Mrs.  Moflfat  could  not  obtain  for  love  or  money  a  person 
who  would  even  approach  the  Mystery. 

The  most  singular  part  of  the  transaction  was  that  we 
were  entirely  ignorant  of  what  the  creature  habitually  fed 
on.  Everything  in  the  way  of  nutriment  that  we  could 
think  of  was  placed  before  it,  but  was  never  touched.  It 
was  awful  to  stand  by,  day  after  day,  and  see  the  clothes 
toss,  and  hear  the  hard  breathing,  and  know  that  it  was 
starving. 

Ten,  twelve  days,  a  fortnight  passed,  and  it  still  lived. 
The  pulsations  of  the  heart,  however,  were  daily  growing 
fainter,  and  had  now  nearly  ceased  altogether.  It  was 
evident  that  the  creature  was  dying  for  want  of  suste- 
nance. While  this  terrible  life-struggle  was  going  on,  I  felt 
miserable.  I  could  not  sleep  of  nights.  Horrible  as  the 
creature  was,  it  was  pitiful  to  think  of  the  pangs  it  was 
suffering. 


228     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

At  last  it  died.  Hammond  and  I  found  it  cold  and  stiff 
one  morning  in  the  bed.  The  heart  had  ceased  to  beat, 
the  lungs  to  inspire.  We  hastened  to  bury  it  in  the  garden. 
It  was  a  strange  funeral,  the  dropping  of  that  viewless  corpse 
into  the  damp  hole.  The  cast  of  its  form  I  gave  to  Doctor 
X ,  who  keeps  it  in  his  museum  in  Tenth  Street. 

As  I  am  on  the  eve  of  a  long  journey  from  which  I  may 
not  return,  I  have  drawn  up  this  narrative  of  an  event  the 
most  singular  that  has  ever  come  to  my  knowledge. 

NOTE. 

[IT  is  rumored  that  the  proprietors  of  a  well-known  museum 

in  this  city  have  made  arrangements  with  Dr.  X to  exhibit 

to  the  public  the  singular  cast  which  Mr.  Escott  deposited  with 
him.  So  extraordinary  a  history  cannot  fail  to  attract  universal 
attention.] 


FRANCIS   BRET  HARTE 

1839-1902 

BRET  HARTE  will  always  be  associated  with  the  California  of 
the  "forty-niners."  Gold  digger,  teacher,  express  messenger 
by  turns,  he  was  setting  up  his  own  sketches  among  the  com- 
positors of  the  San  Francisco  Golden  Era  while  still  in  his 
'teens.  The  sketches  brought  him  into  the  editorial  room,  and 
then  to  his  own  chair  of  the  Weekly  Californian,  where  he  vin- 
dicated his  title  by  the  clever  Condensed  Novels.  A  secretary- 
ship in  the  United  States  Branch  Mint  gave  him  leisure  to 
gain  wide  popularity  in  verse.  On  this  he  mounted  to  his 
height.  The  year  1868  is  cardinal  in  his  life  and  in  the  history 
of  American  literature ;  for  in  that  year  was  founded  The  Over- 
land Monthly;  and  the  young  man  of  the  hour  was  made  its 
editor.  Its  second  number  (August,  1868)  contained  the  most 
widely  known,  perhaps,  of  all  American  short  stories,  The  Luck 
of  Roaring  Camp.  The  three  years  of  his  editorship  include 
his  most  popular  work,  and  perhaps  his  most  enduring.  He 
made  the  whole  country  laugh  and  weep  by  his  verse,  he  estab- 
lished a  magazine  of  solid  merit,  and  he  gave  new  life  to  the 
short  story. 

To  this  growth  his  removal  to  the  East  in  1871  put  a  period. 
Continuing  his  production  pretty  steadily  on  the  Atlantic  sea- 
board, in  his  consulships  at  Crefeld  (1878)  and  at  Glasgow 
(1880),  and  finally  during  seventeen  years  in  London  (1885- 
1902),  he  hardly  advanced  in  art.  That  his  art  survived  the 
transplanting  is  sufficiently  proved  by  the  long  list  of  his  books  ; 
but  it  did  not  thrive.  His  constant  recurrence  to  the  old  themes 
suggests  that  he  missed  the  strong  western  soil. 

The  familiar  tale  reprinted  here  is  typical  of  Bret  Harte's 
field,  geographical  and  artistic.  His  local  color  no  longer  keeps 
the  separate  value  attached  to  it  alike  by  many  of  his  admirers 
and  by  himself.  The  California  of  his  stories,  sometimes  drawn 


230    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

to  the  life,  as  in  Johnson's  Old  Woman,  is  often  that  California, 
made  of  stock  desperadoes,  stage-drivers,  and  gulches,  which  is 
the  delight  of  melodrama.  Melodramatic  Harte  is  incorrigibly. 
Mrs.  Skaggs  is  the  Dumas  adventuress  ;  and  the  people  of  her 
story  can  hardly  be  seen  off  the  boards.  The  Iliad  of  Sandy 
Bar  shows  that  cheap  shifting  from  farce  humor  to  false 
pathos  which  catches  the  throats  of  the  gallery.  Though  in 
fact  he  had  the  knowledge  of  actual  contact,  he  saw  California 
as  his  master  Dickens  saw  London,  through  a  haze  of  romance. 
The  stories  of  both  are  woven  from  the  suggestions  of  actual 
places ;  but  in  the  weaving  the  actuality  has  faded. 

Rather  Bret  Harte's  best  stories  prevail  by  something  not 
extraneous,  by  focusing  the  primary  emotions  on  a  single  imagi- 
native situation.  Poker  Flat  is  almost  allegory  —  the  gambler, 
the  thief,  the  harlot,  the  innocents,  not  so  artificially  grouped  as 
in  Hawthorne's  Seven  Vagabonds,  but  quite  as  artfully.  It  is 
convincing,  not  as  a  transcript  of  pioneer  society,  but  as  a 
unified  conception  of  unhindered  human  emotions.  The  same 
is  true  of  the  famous  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  of  Tennessee's 
Partner,  and  of  his  best  work  in  general.  For  all  its  scientific 
aloofness  and  worship  of  fact,  is  La  maison  Tellier  ultimately 
as  human  as  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  f 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT 

[From  "  The  Overland  Monthly,"  January,  1869  ;  copyright,  1871, 
by  Fields,  Osgood  $  Co.;  1899 ',  by  Bret  Harte ;  reprinted  here  by 
special  arrangement  with  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  $  Co.,  author- 
ized publishers  of  all  Bret  Harte's  works] 

AS  Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  gambler,  stepped  into  the  main 
street  of  Poker  Flat  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty- 
third  of  November,  1850,  he  was  conscious  of  a  change  in 
its  moral  atmosphere  since  the  preceding  night.  Two  or 
three  men,  conversing  earnestly  together,  ceased  as  he  ap- 
proached, and  exchanged  significant  glances.  There  was 
a  Sabbath  lull  in  the  air,  which,  in  a  settlement  unused  to 
Sabbath  influences,  looked  ominous. 

Mr.  Oakhurst's  calm,  handsome  face  betrayed  small 
concern  of  these  indications.  Whether  he  was  conscious 
of  any  predisposing  cause,  was  another  question.  "I 
reckon  they  're  after  somebody,"  he  reflected ;  "  likely  it 's 
me."  He  returned  to  his  pocket  the  handkerchief  with 
which  he  had  been  whipping  away  the  red  dust  of  Poker 
Flat  from  his  neat  boots,  and  quietly  discharged  his  mind 
of  any  further  conjecture. 

In  point  of  fact,  Poker  Flat  was  "  after  somebody."  It 
had  lately  suffered  the  loss  of  several  thousand  dollars,  two 
valuable  horses,  and  a  prominent  citizen.  It  was  expe- 
riencing a  spasm  of  virtuous  reaction,  quite  as  lawless  and 
ungovernable  as  any  of  the  acts  that  had  provoked  it.  A 
231 


232     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

secret  committee  had  determined  to  rid  the  town  of  all 
improper  persons.  This  was  done  permanently  in  regard 
of  two  men  who  were  then  hanging  from  the  boughs  of  a 
sycamore  in  the  gulch,  and  temporarily  in  the  banishment 
of  certain  other  objectionable  characters.  I  regret  to  say 
that  some  of  these  were  ladies.  It  is  but  due  to  the  sex, 
however,  to  state  that  their  impropriety  was  professional, 
and  it  was  only  in  such  easily  established  standards  of  evil 
that  Poker  Flat  ventured  to  sit  in  judgment. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  was  right  in  supposing  that  he  was  included 
in  this  category.  A  few  of  the  committee  had  urged  hang- 
ing him  as  a  possible  example,  and  a  sure  method  of  reim- 
bursing themselves  from  his  pockets  of  the  sums  he  had 
won  from  them.  "  It 's  agin  justice,"  said  Jim  Wheeler, 
"  to  let  this  yer  young  man  from  Roaring  Camp  —  an  entire 
stranger  —  carry  away  our  money."  But  a  crude  sentiment 
of  equity  residing  in  the  breasts  of  those  who  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  win  from  Mr.  Oakhurst  overruled  this 
narrower  local  prejudice. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  received  his  sentence  with  philosophic 
calmness,  none  the  less  coolly  that  he  was  aware  of  the 
hesitation  of  his  judges.  He  was  too  much  of  a  gambler 
not  to  accept  Fate.  With  him  life  was  at  best  an  uncertain 
game,  and  he  recognized  the  usual  percentage  in  favor  of 
the  dealer. 

A  body  of  armed  men  accompanied  the  deported  wicked- 
ness of  Poker  Flat  to  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement.  Be- 
sides Mr.  Oakhurst,  who  was  known  to  be  a  coolly  desperate 
man,  and  for  whose  intimidation  the  armed  escort  was 
intended,  the  expatriated  party  consisted  of  a  young  woman 
familiarly  known  as  "The  Duchess";  another,  who  had 
gained  the  infelicitous  title  of  "  Mother  Shipton " ;  and 
"Uncle  Billy,"  a  suspected  sluice-robber  and  confirmed 
drunkard.  The  cavalcade  provoked  no  comments  from 
the  spectators,  nor  was  any  word  uttered  by  the  escort. 
Only,  when  the  gulch  which  marked  the  uttermost  limit  of 
Poker  Flat  was  reached,  the  leader  spoke  briefly  and  to  the 


FRANCIS   BRET   HARTE         233 

point.  The  exiles  were  forbidden  to  return  at  the  peril  of 
their  lives. 

As  the  escort  disappeared,  their  pent-up  feelings  found 
vent  in  a  few  hysterical  tears  from  "The  Duchess,"  some 
bad  language  from  Mother  Shipton,  and  a  Parthian  volley 
of  expletives  from  Uncle  Billy.  The  philosophic  Oakhurst 
alone  remained  silent.  He  listened  calmly  to  Mother  Ship- 
ton's  desire  to  cut  somebody's  heart  out,  to  the  repeated 
statements  of  "The  Duchess"  that  she  would  die  in  the 
road,  and  to  the  alarming  oaths  that  seemed  to  be  bumped 
out  of  Uncle  Billy  as  he  rode  forward.  With  the  easy  good- 
humor  characteristic  of  his  class,  he  insisted  upon  exchang- 
ing his  own  riding-horse,  "  Five  Spot,"  for  the  sorry  mule 
which  the  Duchess  rode.  But  even  this  act  did  not  draw 
the  party  into  any  closer  sympathy.  The  young  woman 
readjusted  her  somewhat  draggled  plumes  with  a  feeble, 
faded  coquetry;  Mother  Shipton  eyed  the  possessor  of 
"  Five  Spot "  with  malevolence,  and  Uncle  Billy  included 
the  whole  party  in  one  sweeping  anathema. 

The  road  to  Sandy  Bar  —  a  camp  that,  not  having  as  yet 
experienced  the  regenerating  influences  of  Poker  Flat,  con- 
sequently seemed  to  offer  some  invitation  to  the  emigrants 
—  lay  over  a  steep  mountain  range.  It  was  distant  a  day's 
severe  journey.  In  that  advanced  season,  the  party  soon 
passed  out  of  the  moist,  temperate  regions  of  the  foot-hills 
into  the  dry,  cold,  bracing  air  of  the  Sierras.  The  trail 
was  narrow  and  difficult.  At  noon  the  Duchess,  rolling  out 
of  her  saddle  upon  the  ground,  declared  her  intention  of 
going  no  farther,  and  the  party  halted. 

The  spot  was  singularly  wild  and  impressive.  A  wooded 
amphitheatre,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  precipitous 
cliffs  of  naked  granite,  sloped  gently  toward  the  crest  of 
another  precipice  that  overlooked  the  valley.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly the  most  suitable  spot  for  a  camp,  had  camping 
been  advisable.  But  Mr.  Oakhurst  knew  that  scarcely  half 
the  journey  to  Sandy  Bar  was  accomplished,  and  the  party 
were  not  equipped  or  provisioned  for  delay.  This  fact  he 


234     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

pointed  out  to  his  companions  curtly,  with  a  philosophic 
commentary  on  the  folly  of  "  throwing  up  their  hand  before 
the  game  was  played  out."  But  they  were  furnished  with 
liquor,  which  in  this  emergency  stood  them  in  place  of 
food,  fuel,  rest,  and  prescience.  In  spite  of  his  remon- 
strances, it  was  not  long  before  they  were  more  or  less 
under  its  influence.  Uncle  Billy  passed  rapidly  from  a 
bellicose  state  into  one  of  stupor,  the  Duchess  became 
maudlin,  and  Mother  Shipton  snored.  Mr.  Oakhurst  alone 
remained  erect,  leaning  against  a  rock,  calmly  surveying 
them. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  did  not  drink.  It  interfered  with  a  profes- 
sion which  required  coolness,  impassiveness,  and  presence 
of  mind,  and,  in  his  own  language,  he  "  could  n't  afford  it." 
As  he  gazed  at  his  recumbent  fellow- exiles,  the  loneliness 
begotten  of  his  pariah-trade,  his  habits  of  life,  his  very  vices, 
for  the  first  time  seriously  oppressed  him.  He  bestirred 
himself  in  dusting  his  black  clothes,  washing  his  hands  and 
face,  and  other  acts  characteristic  of  his  studiously  neat 
habits,  and  for  a  moment  forgot  his  annoyance.  The 
thought  of  deserting  his  weaker  and  more  pitiable  compan- 
ions never  perhaps  occurred  to  him.  Yet  he  could  not  help 
feeling  the  want  of  that  excitement  which,  singularly  enough, 
was  most  conducive  to  that  calm  equanimity  for  which  he 
was  notorious.  He  looked  at  the  gloomy  walls  that  rose  a 
thousand  feet  sheer  above  the  circling  pines  around  him ; 
at  the  sky,  ominously  clouded  ;  at  the  valley  below,  already 
deepening  into  shadow.  And,  doing  so,  suddenly  he  heard 
his  own  name  called. 

A  horseman  slowly  ascended  the  trail.  In  the  fresh, 
open  face  of  the  new-comer  Mr.  Oakhurst  recognized  Tom 
Simson,  otherwise  known  as  "  The  Innocent "  of  Sandy  Bar. 
He  had  met  him  some  months  before  over  a  "  little  game," 
and  had,  with  perfect  equanimity,  won  the  entire  fortune  — 
amounting  to  some  forty  dollars  —  of  that  guileless  youth. 
After  the  game  was  finished,  Mr.  Oakhurst  drew  the  youth- 
ful speculator  behind  the  door  and  thus  addressed  him : 


FRANCIS   BRET   HARTE         235 

"  Tommy,  you  're  a  good  little  man,  but  you  can't  gamble 
worth  a  cent.  Don't  try  it  over  again."  He  then  handed 
him  his  money  back,  pushed  him  gently  from  the  room,  and 
so  made  a  devoted  slave  of  Tom  Simson. 

There  was  a  remembrance  of  this  in  his  boyish  and 
enthusiastic  greeting  of  Mr.  Oakhurst.  He  had  started,  he 
said,  to  go  to  Poker  Flat  to  seek  his  fortune.  "Alone  ?" 
No,  not  exactly  alone  ;  in  fact  —  a  giggle  —  he  had  run  away 
with  Piney  Woods.  Did  n't  Mr.  Oakhurst  remember  Piney  ? 
She  that  used  to  wait  on  the  table  at  the  Temperance 
House  ?  They  had  been  engaged  a  long  time,  but  old  Jake 
Woods  had  objected,  and  so  they  had  run  away,  and  were 
going  to  Poker  Flat  to  be  married,  and  here  they  were. 
And  they  were  tired  out,  and  how  lucky  it  was  they  had 
found  a  place  to  camp  and  company.  All  this  the  Inno- 
cent delivered  rapidly,  while  Piney  —  a  stout,  comely  damsel 
of  fifteen  —  emerged  from  behind  the  pine-tree,  where  she 
had  been  blushing  unseen,  and  rode  to  the  side  of  her 
lover. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  seldom  troubled  himself  with  sentiment, 
still  less  with  propriety ;  but  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  the 
situation  was  not  felicitous.  He  retained,  however,  his  pres- 
ence of  mind  sufficiently  to  kick  Uncle  Billy,  who  was  about 
to  say  something,  and  Uncle  Billy  was  sober  enough  to  rec- 
ognize in  Mr.  Oakhurst's  kick  a  superior  power  that  would 
not  bear  trifling.  He  then  endeavored  to  dissuade  Tom 
Simson  from  delaying  further,  but  in  vain.  He  even  pointed 
out  the  fact  that  there  was  no  provision,  nor  means  of  mak- 
ing a  camp.  But,  unluckily,  "The  Innocent "  met  this  ob- 
jection by  assuring  the  party  that  he  was  provided  with  an 
extra  mule  loaded  with  provisions,  and  by  the  discovery  of 
a  rude  attempt  at  a  log-house  near  the  trail.  "  Piney  can 
stay  with  Mrs.  Oakhurst,"  said  the  Innocent,  pointing  to 
the  Duchess,  "  and  I  can  shift  for  myself." 

Nothing  but  Mr.  Oakhurst's  admonishing  foot  saved 
Uncle  Billy  from  bursting  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  As  it 
was,  he  felt  compelled  to  retire  up  the  canon  until  he  could 


236     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

recover  his  gravity.  There  he  confided  the  joke  to  the  tall 
pine  trees,  with  many  slaps  of  his  leg,  contortions  of  his 
face,  and  the  usual  profanity.  But  when  he  returned  to  the 
party,  he  found  them  seated  by  a  fire  —  for  the  air  had 
grown  strangely  chill  and  the  sky  overcast  —  in  apparently 
amicable  conversation.  Piney  was  actually  talking  in  an 
impulsive,  girlish  fashion  to  the  Duchess,  who  was  listening 
with  an  interest  and  animation  she  had  not  shown  for  many 
days.  The  Innocent  was  holding  forth,  apparently  with 
equal  effect,  to  Mr.  Oakhurst  and  Mother  Shipton,  who  was 
actually  relaxing  into  amiability.  "  Is  this  yer  a  d — d 
picnic?  "  said  Uncle  Billy,  with  inward  scorn,  as  he  surveyed 
the  sylvan  group,  the  glancing  fire-light,  and  the  tethered 
animals  in  the  foreground.  Suddenly  an  idea  mingled  with 
the  alcoholic  fumes  that  disturbed  his  brain.  It  was  appar- 
ently of  a  jocular  nature,  for  he  felt  impelled  to  slap  his  leg 
again  and  cram  his  fist  into  his  mouth. 

As  the  shadows  crept  slowly  up  the  mountain,  a  slight 
breeze  rocked  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees,  and  moaned 
through  their  long  and  gloomy  aisles.  The  ruined  cabin, 
patched  and  covered  with  pine  boughs,  was  set  apart  for  the 
ladies.  As  the  lovers  parted,  they  unaffectedly  exchanged 
a  kiss,  so  honest  and  sincere  that  it  might  have  been  heard 
above  the  swaying  pines.  The  frail  Duchess  and  the  ma- 
levolent Mother  Shipton  were  probably  too  stunned  to 
remark  upon  this  last  evidence  of  simplicity,  and  so  turned 
without  a  word  to  the  hut.  The  fire  was  replenished,  the 
men  lay  down  before  the  door,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were 
asleep. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  was  a  light  sleeper.  Toward  morning 
he  awoke  benumbed  and  cold.  As  he  stirred  the  dying 
fire,  the  wind,  which  was  now  blowing  strongly,  brought 
to  his  cheek  that  which  caused  the  blood  to  leave  it, — 
snow ! 

He  started  to  his  feet  with  the  intention  of  awakening 
the  sleepers,  for  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  But  turning  to 
where  Uncle  Billy  had  been  lying,  he  found  him  gone.  A 


FRANCIS  BRET    HARTE         237 

suspicion  leaped  to  his  brain  and  a  curse  to  his  lips.  He 
ran  to  the  spot  where  the  mules  had  been  tethered ;  they 
were  no  longer  there.  The  tracks  were  already  rapidly 
disappearing  in  the  snow. 

The  momentary  excitement  brought  Mr.  Oakhurst  back 
to  the  fire  with  his  usual  calm.  He  did  not  waken  the 
sleepers.  The  Innocent  slumbered  peacefully,  with  a  smile 
on  his  good-humored,  freckled  face ;  the  virgin  Piney  slept 
beside  her  frailer  sisters  as  sweetly  as  though  attended  by 
celestial  guardians,  and  Mr.  Oakhurst,  drawing  his  blanket 
over  his  shoulders,  stroked  his  mustachios  and  waited  for 
the  dawn.  It  came  slowly  in  a  whirling  mist  of  snow- 
flakes,  that  dazzled  and  confused  the  eye.  What  could  be 
seen  of  the  landscape  appeared  magically  changed.  He 
looked  over  the  valley,  and  summed  up  the  present  and 
future  in  two  words,  —  "  Snowed  in  ! " 

A  careful  inventory  of  the  provisions,  which,  fortunately 
for  the  party,  had  been  stored  within  the  hut,  and  so  escaped 
the  felonious  fingers  of  Uncle  Billy,  disclosed  the  fact  that 
with  care  and  prudence  they  might  last  ten  days  longer. 
"That  is,"  said  Mr.  Oakhurst,  sotto  voce  to  the  Innocent, 
"  if  you  're  willing  to  board  us.  If  you  ain't  —  and  perhaps 
you  'd  better  not  —  you  can  wait  till  Uncle  Billy  gets  back 
with  provisions."  For  some  occult  reason,  Mr.  Oakhurst 
could  not  bring  himself  to  disclose  Uncle  Billy's  rascality, 
and  so  offered  the  hypothesis  that  he  had  wandered  from 
the  camp  and  had  accidentally  stampeded  the  animals. 
He  dropped  a  warning  to  the  Duchess  and  Mother  Shipton, 
who  of  course  knew  the  facts  of  their  associate's  defection. 
"  They  '11  find  out  the  truth  about  us  all,  when  they  find  out 
anything,"  he  added,  significantly,  "and  there's  no  good 
frightening  them  now." 

Tom  Simson  not  only  put  all  his  worldly  store  at  the  dis- 
posal of  Mr.  Oakhurst,  but  seemed  to  enjoy  the  prospect  of 
their  enforced  seclusion.  "  We  '11  have  a  good  camp  for  a 
week,  and  then  the  snow  '11  melt,  and  we  '11  all  go  back  to- 
gether." The  cheerful  gayety  of  the  young  man  and  Mr. 


238     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

Oakhurst's  calm  infected  the  others.  The  Innocent,  with 
the  aid  of  pine  boughs,  extemporized  a  thatch  for  the  roof- 
less cabin,  and  the  Duchess  directed  Piney  in  the  rearrange- 
ment of  the  interior  with  a  taste  and  tact  that  opened  the 
blue  eyes  of  that  provincial  maiden  to  their  fullest  extent. 
"  I  reckon  now  you  're  used  to  fine  things  at  Poker  Flat," 
said  Piney.  The  Duchess  turned  away  sharply  to  conceal 
something  that  reddened  her  cheek  through  its  professional 
tint,  and  Mother  Shipton  requested  Piney  not  to  "chatter." 
But  when  Mr.  Oakhurst  returned  from  a  weary  search  for  the 
trail,  he  heard  the  sound  of  happy  laughter  echoed  from  the 
rocks.  He  'Stopped  in  some  alarm,  and  his  thoughts  first 
naturally  reverted  to  the  whiskey,  which  he  had  prudently 
cached.  "  And  yet  it  don't  somehow  sound  like  whiskey," 
said  the  gambler.  It  was  not  until  he  caught  sight  of  the 
blazing  fire  through  the  still  blinding  storm,  and  the  group 
around  it,  that  he  settled  to  the  conviction  that  it  was 
"  square  fun." 

Whether  Mr.  Oakhurst  had  cached  his  cards  with  the 
whiskey  as  something  debarred  the  free  access  of  the  com- 
munity, I  cannot  say.  It  was  certain  that,  in  Mother  Ship- 
ton's  words,  he  "didn't  say  cards  once"  during  that  evening. 
Haply  the  time  was  beguiled  by  an  accordeon,  produced 
somewhat  ostentatiously  by  Tom  Simson,  from  his  pack. 
Notwithstanding  some  difficulties  attending  the  manipula- 
tion of  this  instrument,  Piney  Woods  managed  to  pluck 
several  reluctant  melodies  from  its  keys,  to  an  accompani- 
ment by  the  Innocent  on  a  pair  of  bone  castinets.  But  the 
crowning  festivity  of  the  evening  was  reached  in  a  rude 
camp-meeting  hymn,  which  the  lovers,  joining  hands,  sang 
with  great  earnestness  and  vociferation.  I  fear  that  a  cer- 
tain defiant  tone  and  Covenanter's  swing  to  its  chorus,  rather 
than  any  devotional  quality,  caused  it  speedily  to  infect  the 
others,  who  at  last  joined  in  the  refrain  : 

"  I  'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I  'm  bound  to  die  in  His  army." 


FRANCIS   BRET    HARTE         239 

The  pines  rocked,  the  storm  eddied  and  whirled  above 
the  miserable  group,  and  the  flames  of  their  altar  leaped 
heavenward,  as  if  in  token  of  the  vow. 

At  midnight  the  storm  abated,  the  rolling  clouds  parted, 
and  the  stars  glittered  keenly  above  the  sleeping  camp.  Mr. 
Oakhurst,  whose  professional  habits  had  enabled  him  to  live 
on  the  smallest  possible  amount  of  sleep,  in  dividing  the 
watch  with  Tom  Simson,  somehow  managed  to  take  upon 
himself  the  greater  part  of  that  duty.  He  excused  himself 
to  the  Innocent,  by  saying  that  he  had  "  often  been  a  week 
without  sleep."  "  Doing  what?  "  asked  Tom.  "  Poker  !  " 
replied  Oakhurst,  sententiously ;  "  when  a  man  gets  a  streak 
of  luck,  —  nigger-luck,  —  he  don't  get  tired.  The  luck  gives 
in  first.  Luck,"  continued  the  gambler,  reflectively,  "  is  a 
mighty  queer  thing.  All  you  know  about  it  for  certain  is 
that  it 's  bound  to  change.  And  it 's  finding  out  when  it 's 
going  to  change  that  makes  you.  We  've  had  a  streak  of 
bad  luck  since  we  left  Poker  Flat  —  you  come  along,  and 
slap  you  get  into  it,  too.  If  you  can  hold  your  cards  right 
along  you're  all  right.  For,"  added  the  gambler,  with 
cheerful  irrelevance, 

'  I  'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I  'm  bound  to  die  in  His  army.' " 

The  third  day  came,  and  the  sun,  looking  through  the 
white-curtained  valley,  saw  the  outcasts  divide  their  slowly 
decreasing  store  of  provisions  for  the  morning  meal.  It 
was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  mountain  climate  that 
its  rays  diffused  a  kindly  warmth  over  the  wintry  landscape, 
as  if  in  regretful  commiseration  of  the  past.  But  it  revealed 
drift  on  drift  of  snow  piled  high  around  the  hut  ;  a  hope- 
less, uncharted,  trackless  sea  of  white  lying  below  the  rocky 
shores  to  which  the  castaways  still  clung.  Through  the 
marvellously  clear  air,  the  smoke  of  the  pastoral  village  of 
Poker  Flat  rose  miles  away.  Mother  Shipton  saw  it,  and 
from  a  remote  pinnacle  of  her  rocky  fastness,  hurled  in  that 
direction  a  final  malediction.  It  was  her  last  vituperative 


24o    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

attempt,  and  perhaps  for  that  reason  was  invested  with  a 
certain  degree  of  sublimity.  It  did  her  good,  she  privately 
informed  the  Duchess.  "Just  you  go  out  there  and  cuss, 
and  see."  She  then  set  herself  to  the  task  of  amusing  "  the 
child,"  as  she  and  the  Duchess  were  pleased  to  call  Piney. 
Piney  was  no  chicken,  but  it  was  a  soothing  and  ingenious 
theory  of  the  pair  thus  to  account  for  the  fact  that  she 
did  n't  swear  and  was  n't  improper. 

When  night  crept  up  again  through  the  gorges,  the  reedy 
notes  of  the  accordeon  rose  and  fell  in  fitful  spasms  and 
long-drawn  gasps  by  the  flickering  camp-fire.  But  music 
failed  to  fill  entirely  the  aching  void  left  by  insufficient  food, 
and  a  new  diversion  was  proposed  by  Piney  —  story-tel- 
ling. Neither  Mr.  Oakhurst  nor  his  female  companions 
caring  to  relate  their  personal  experiences,  this  plan  would 
have  failed,  too,  but  for  The  Innocent.  Some  months  be- 
fore he  had  chanced  upon  a  stray  copy  of  Mr.  Pope's 
ingenious  translation  of  the  Iliad.  He  now  proposed 
to  narrate  the  principal  incidents  of  that  poem  —  having 
thoroughly  mastered  the  argument  and  fairly  forgotten 
the  words  —  in  the  current  vernacular  of  Sandy  Bar. 
And  so  for  the  rest  of  that  night  the  Homeric  demi- 
gods again  walked  the  earth.  Trojan  bully  and  wily 
Greek  wrestled  in  the  winds,  and  the  great  pines  in  the 
canon  seemed  to  bow  to  the  wrath  of  the  son  of  Peleus. 
Mr.  Oakhurst  listened  with  quiet  satisfaction.  Most  es- 
pecially was  he  interested  in  the  fate  of  "Ash-heels,"  as 
the  Innocent  persisted  in  denominating  the  "swift-footed 
Achilles." 

So  with  small  food  and  much  of  Homer  and  the  accor- 
deon, a  week  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  outcasts.  The 
sun  again  forsook  them,  and  again  from  leaden  skies  the 
snow-flakes  were  sifted  over  the  land.  Day  by  day  closer 
around  them  drew  the  snowy  circle,  until  at  last  they 
looked  from  their  prison  over  drifted  walls  of  dazzling 
white,  that  towered  twenty  feet  above  their  heads.  It 
became  more  and  more  difficult  to  replenish  their  fires, 


FRANCIS  BRET   HARTE         241 

even  from  the  fallen  trees  beside  them,  now  half-hidden 
in  the  drifts.  And  yet  no  one  complained.  The  lovers 
turned  from  the  dreary  prospect  and  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  were  happy.  Mr.  Oakhurst  settled  him- 
self coolly  to  the  losing  game  before  him.  The  Duchess, 
more  cheerful  than  she  had  been,  assumed  the  care  of 
Piney.  Only  Mother  Shipton  —  once  the  strongest  of  the 
party  —  seemed  to  sicken  and  fade.  At  midnight  on  the 
tenth  day  she  called  Oakhurst  to  her  side.  "  I  'm  going," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  of  querulous  weakness,  "  but  don't 
say  anything  about  it.  Don't  waken  the  kids.  Take  the 
bundle  from  under  my  head  and  open  it."  Mr.  Oakhurst 
did  so.  It  contained  Mother  Shipton's  rations  for  the  last 
week,  untouched.  "  Give  'em  to  the  child,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  sleeping  Piney.  "  You  Ve  starved  your- 
self," said  the  gambler.  "That's  what  they  call  it,"  said 
the  woman,  querulously,  as  she  lay  down  again,  and,  turn- 
ing her  face  to  the  wall,  passed  quietly  away. 

The  accordeon  and  the  bones  were  put  aside  that  day, 
and  Homer  was  forgotten.  When  the  body  of  Mother 
Shipton  had  been  committed  to  the  snow,  Mr.  Oakhurst 
took  The  Innocent  aside,  and  showed  him  a  pair  of  snow- 
shoes,  which  he  had  fashioned  from  the  old  pack-saddle. 
"There's  one  chance  in  a  hundred  to  save  her  yet,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  Piney ;  "  but  it 's  there,"  he  added,  point- 
ing toward  Poker  Flat.  "  If  you  can  reach  there  in  two 
days  she  's  safe."  "  And  you?  "  asked  Tom  Simson.  "  I  '11 
stay  here,"  was  the  curt  reply. 

The  lovers  parted  with  a  long  embrace.  "  You  are  not 
going,  too?"  said  the  Duchess,  as  she  saw  Mr.  Oakhurst 
apparently  waiting  to  accompany  him.  "  As  far  as  the 
canon,"  he  replied.  He  turned  suddenly,  and  kissed  the 
Duchess,  leaving  her  pallid  face  aflame,  and  her  trembling 
limbs  rigid  with  amazement. 

Night  came,  but  not  Mr.  Oakhurst.  It  brought  the 
storm  again  and  the  whirling  snow.  Then  the  Duchess, 
feeding  the  fire,  found  that  some  one  had  quietly  piled 
16 


242     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

beside  the  hut  enough  fuel  to  last  a  few  days  longer.  The 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  but  she  hid  them  from  Piney. 

The  women  slept  but  little.  In  the  morning,  looking 
into  each  other's  faces,  they  read  their  fate.  Neither 
spoke ;  but  Piney,  accepting  the  position  of  the  stronger, 
drew  near  and  placed  her  arm  around  the  Duchess's  waist. 
They  kept  this  attitude  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  That  night 
the  storm  reached  its  greatest  fury,  and,  rending  asunder 
the  protecting  pines,  invaded  the  very  hut. 

Toward  morning  they  found  themselves  unable  to  feed 
the  fire,  which  gradually  died  away.  As  the  embers  slowly 
blackened,  the  Duchess  crept  closer  to  Piney,  and  broke 
the  silence  of  many  hours:  "Piney,  can  you  pray?" 
"No,  dear,"  said  Piney,  simply.  The  Duchess,  without 
knowing  exactly  why,  felt  relieved,  and,  putting  her  head 
upon  Piney's  shoulder,  spoke  no  more.  And  so  reclining, 
the  younger  and  purer  pillowing  the  head  of  her  soiled 
sister  upon  her  virgin  breast,  they  fell  asleep.  ; 

The  wind  lulled  as  if  it  feared  to  waken  them.  Feathery 
drifts  of  snow,  shaken  from  the  long  pine  boughs,  flew  like 
white-winged  birds,  and  settled  about  them  as  they  slept. 
The  moon  through  the  rifted  clouds  looked  down  upon 
what  had  been  the  camp.  But  all  human  stain,  all  trace  of 
earthly  travail,  was  hidden  beneath  the  spotless  mantle 
mercifully  flung  from  above. 

They  slept  all  that  day  and  the  next,  nor  did  they  waken 
when  voices  and  footsteps  broke  the  silence  of  the  camp. 
And  when  pitying  fingers  brushed  the  snow  from  their 
wan  faces,  you  could  scarcely  have  told  from  the  equal 
peace  that  dwelt  upon  them,  which  was  she  that  had 
sinned.  Even  the  Law  of  Poker  Flat  recognized  this, 
and  turned  away,  leaving  them  still  locked  in  each  other's 
arms. 

But  at  the  head  of  the  gulch,  on  one  of  the  largest  pine 
trees,  they  found  the  deuce  of  clubs  pinned  to  the  bark 
with  a  bowie  knife.  It  bore  the  following,  written  in 
pencil,  in  a  firm  hand : 


FRANCIS    BRET    HARTE         243 

t 

BENEATH   THIS   TREE 

LIES   THE   BODY 

OF 

JOHN  OAKHURST, 

WHO   STRUCK   A   STREAK   OF   BAD  LUCK 
ON  THE   23D  OF  NOVEMBER,    1850, 

AND 

HANDED   IN   HIS   CHECKS 
ON   THE   7TH   DECEMBER,    1850. 

* 

And  pulseless  and  cold,  with  a  Derringer  by  his  side  and 
a  bullet  in  his  heart,  though  still  calm  as  in  life,  beneath  the 
snow  lay  he  who  was  at  once  the  strongest  and  yet  the 
weakest  of  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 


ALBERT  FALVEY  WEBSTER 
1848  - 1876 

READERS  of  "  Appleton's  Journal  "  in  the  early  'yo's  must  have 
looked  forward  from  week  to  week  to  the  stories  of  Albert 
Webster.  For,  often  as  he  wrote,  he  always  had  a  story  to  tell. 
It  might  be  merely  a  romance  of  incident ;  it  was  usually  a 
situation  of  very  human  significance ;  it  always  showed  narra- 
tive instinct.  With  this  native  sense  he  was  experimenting 
variously  toward  his  art,  while  through  his  investigations  of 
prisons,  courts,  and  medical  advice  he  was  developing  a  serious 
and  definite  philosophy  of  life.  But  his  own  life  was  doomed. 
The  quest  of  health,  very  like  Stevenson's,  may  be  read  in  the 
titles  of  his  descriptive  essays  during  1875  and  1876:  Spring 
Days  in  Aiken,  From  New  York  to  Aspinwall,  The  Isthmus 
and  Panama,  Up  the  Mexican  Coast,  Winter  Days  in  Cali- 
fornia, etc.  On  the  steamer  from  San  Francisco  to  Honolulu 
he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  Pacific.  He  was  betrothed  to 
Una,  eldest  daughter  of  Hawthorne. 

Of  his  many  stories  perhaps  the  most  striking  is  An  Opera- 
tion in  Money  ("Appleton's  Journal,"  September  27,  1873,  v°l- 
ume  x,  page  387)  ;  the  nicest  in  adjustment,  Miss  Eunice's 
Glove,  printed  below.  The  Daphne  ("Appleton's  Journal," 
1873,  volume  x,  page  290)  and  A  FooPs  Moustache  (ibid.,  1874, 
volume  xii,  page  259)  read  as  if  sketched  for  the  stage.  How 
he  kept  at  his  work  appears  pathetically  in  his  leaving  behind  a 
tale  laid  at  Santa  Barbara  and  published  after  his  death,  The 
Owner  of  "Lara  "  (ibid.,  1877,  new  series,  volume  ii,  page  350). 


MISS   EUNICE'S   GLOVE 

[From  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  July,  187S] 


FOR  a  long  time  blithe  and  fragile  Miss  Eunice,  demure, 
correct  in  deportment,  and  yet  not  wholly  without 
enthusiasm,  thought  that  day  the  unluckiest  in  her  life  on 
which  she  first  took  into  her  hands  that  unobtrusive  yet 
dramatic  book,  "  Miss  Crofutt's  Missionary  Labors  in  the 
English  Prisons." 

It  came  to  her  notice  by  mere  accident,  not  by  favor  of 
proselyting  friends ;  and  such  was  its  singular  material,  that 
she  at  once  devoured  it  with  avidity.  As  its  title  sug- 
gests, it  was  the  history  of  the  ameliorating  endeavors  of 
a  woman  in  criminal  society,  and  it  contained,  perforce, 
a  large  amount  of  tragic  and  pathetic  incident.  But  this 
last  was  so  blended  and  involved  with  what  Miss  Eunice 
would  have  skipped  as  commonplace,  that  she  was  led 
to  digest  the  whole  volume,  —  statistics,  philosophy,  com- 
ments, and  all.  She  studied  the  analysis  of  the  atmosphere 
of  cells,  the  properties  and  waste  of  wheaten  flour,  the  cost 
of  clothing  to  the  general  government,  the  whys  and  where- 
fores of  crime  and  evil-doing ;  and  it  was  not  long  before 
there  was  generated  within  her  bosom  a  fine  and  healthy 
ardor  to  emulate  this  practical  and  courageous  pattern. 

She  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  tales  of  missionary 
labors  proper.  She  was  filled  with  joy  to  read  that  Miss 
Crofutt  and  her  lieutenants  sometimes  cracked  and  broke 
away  the  formidable  husks  which  enveloped  divine  kernels 
in  the  hearts  of  some  of  the  wretches,  and  she  frequently 
247 


248     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

wept  at  the  stories  of  victories  gained  over  monsters  whose 
defences  of  silence  and  stolidity  had  suddenly  fallen  into 
ruin  above  the  slow  but  persistent  sapping  of  constant 
kindness.  Acute  tinglings  and  chilling  thrills  would  per- 
vade her  entire  body  when  she  read  that  on  Christmas 
every  wretch  seemed  to  become  for  that  day,  at  least, 
a  gracious  man;  that  the  sight  of  a  few  penny  tapers, 
or  the  possession  of  a  handful  of  sweet  stuff,  or  a  spray 
of  holly,  or  a  hot-house  bloom,  would  appear  to  convert 
the  worst  of  them  into  children.  Her  heart  would  swell 
to  learn  how  they  acted  during  the  one  poor  hour  of 
yearly  freedom  in  the  prison-yards;  that  they  swelled 
their  chests;  that  they  ran;  that  they  took  long  strides; 
that  the  singers  anxiously  tried  their  voices,  now  grown 
husky ;  that  the  athletes  wrestled  only  to  find  their  limbs 
stiff  and  their  arts  forgotten;  that  the  gentlest  of  them 
lifted  their  faces  to  the  broad  sky  and  spent  the  sixty 
minutes  in  a  dreadful  gazing  at  the  clouds. 

The  pretty  student  gradually  became  possessed  with  a 
rage.  She  desired  to  convert  some  one,  to  recover  some 
estray,  to  reform  some  wretch. 

She  regretted  that  she  lived  in  America,  and  not  in  Eng- 
land, where  the  most  perfect  rascals  were  to  be  found ;  she 
was  sorry  that  the  gloomy,  sin-saturated  prisons  which  were 
the  scenes  of  Miss  Crofutt's  labors  must  always  be  beyond 
her  ken. 

There  was  no  crime  in  the  family  or  the  neighborhood 
against  which  she  might  strive ;  no  one  whom  she  knew  was 
even  austere ;  she  had  never  met  a  brute ;  all  her  rascals 
were  newspaper  rascals.  For  aught  she  knew,  this  tran- 
quillity and  good-will  might  go  on  forever,  without  affording 
her  an  opportunity.  She  must  be  denied  the  smallest  con- 
tact with  these  frightful  faces  and  figures,  these  bars  and 
cages,  these  deformities  of  the  mind  and  heart,  these  curi- 
osities of  conscience,  shyness,  skill,  and  daring;  all  these 
dramas  of  reclamation,  all  these  scenes  of  fervent  gratitude, 
thankfulness,  and  intoxicating  liberty,  —  all  or  any  of  these 


ALBERT   FALVEY   WEBSTER     249 

things  must  never  come  to  be  the  lot  of  her  eyes ;  and  she 
gave  herself  up  to  the  most  poignant  regret. 

But  one  day  she  was  astonished  to  discover  that  all  of 
these  delights  lay  within  half  an  hour's  journey  of  her  home  ; 
and  moreover,  that  there  was  approaching  an  hour  which 
was  annually  set  apart  for  the  indulgence  of  the  inmates  of 
the  prison  in  question.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  herself,  as 
she  might  well  have  done,  how  it  was  that  she  had  so  com- 
pletely ignored  this  particular  institution,  which  was  one  of 
the  largest  and  best  conducted  in  the  country,  especially 
when  her  desire  to  visit  one  was  so  keen ;  but  she  straight- 
way set  about  preparing  for  her  intended  visit  in  a  manner 
which  she  fancied  Miss  Crofutt  would  have  approved,  had 
she  been  present. 

She  resolved,  in  the  most  radical  sense  of  the  word,  to 
be  alive.  She  jotted  on  some  ivory  tablets,  with  a  gold 
pencil,  a  number  of  hints  to  assist  her  in  her  observations. 
For  example  :  "  Phrenological  development ;  size  of  cells ; 
ounces  of  solid  and  liquid ;  tissue-producing  food ;  were 
mirrors  allowed?  if  so,  what  was  the  effect?  jimmy  and 
skeleton-key,  character  of;  canary  birds  :  query,  would  not 
their  admission  into  every  cell  animate  in  the  human  pris- 
oners a  similar  buoyancy?  to  urge  upon  the  turnkeys  the 
use  of  the  Spanish  garrote  in  place  of  the  present  distress- 
ing gallows ;  to  find  the  proportion  of  Orthodox  and  Uni- 
tarian prisoners  to  those  of  other  persuasions."  But  besides 
these  and  fifty  other  similar  memoranda,  the  enthusiast  cast 
about  her  for  something  practical  to  do. 

She  hit  upon  the  capital  idea  of  flowers.  She  at  once 
ordered  from  a  gardener  of  taste  two  hundred  bouquets,  or 
rather  nosegays,  which  she  intended  for  distribution  among 
the  prisoners  she  was  about  to  visit,  and  she  called  upon  her 
father  for  the  money. 

Then  she  began  to  prepare  her  mind.  She  wished  to 
define  the  plan  from  which  she  was  to  make  her  contem- 
plations. She  settled  that  she  would  be  grave  and  gentle. 
She  would  be  exquisitely  careful  not  to  hold  herself  too 


250    AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

much  aloof,  and  yet  not  to  step  beyond  the  bounds  of  that 
sweet  reserve  that  she  conceived  must  have  been  at  once 
Miss  Crofutt's  sword  and  buckler. 

Her  object  was  to  awaken  in  the  most  abandoned  crimi- 
nals a  realization  that  the  world,  in  its  most  benignant 
phase,  was  still  open  to  them ;  that  society,  having  obtained 
a  requital  for  their  wickedness,  was  ready  to  embrace  them 
again  on  proof  of  their  repentance. 

She  determined  to  select  at  the  outset  two  or  three  of  the 
most  remarkable  monsters,  and  turn  the  full  head  of  her 
persuasions  exclusively  upon  them,  instead  of  sprinkling 
(as  it  were)  the  whole  community  with  her  grace.  She 
would  arouse  at  first  a  very  few,  and  then  a  few  more,  and 
a  few  more,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

It  was  on  a  hot  July  morning  that  she  journeyed  on  foot 
over  the  bridge  which  led  to  the  prison,  and  there  walked 
a  man  behind  her  carrying  the  flowers. 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  this  being  the  position  most 
significant  of  her  spirit.  Her  pace  was  equal,  firm,  and 
rapid ;  she  made  herself  oblivious  of  the  bustle  of  the 
streets,  and  she  repented  that  her  vanity  had  permitted  her 
to  wear  white  and  lavender,  these  making  a  combination  in 
her  dress  which  she  had  been  told  became  her  well.  She 
had  no  right  to  embellish  herself.  Was  she  going  to  the 
races,  or  a  match,  or  a  kettle-drum,  that  she  must  dandify 
herself  with  particular  shades  of  color  ?  She  stopped  short, 

blushing.  Would  Miss  Cro .  But  there  was  no  help 

for  it  now.  It  was  too  late  to  turn  back.  She  proceeded, 
feeling  that  the  odds  were  against  her. 

She  approached  her  destination  in  such  a  way  that  the 
prison  came  into  view  suddenly.  She  paused  with  a  feeling 
of  terror.  The  enormous  gray  building  rose  far  above  a 
lofty  white  wall  of  stone,  and  a  sense  of  its  prodigious 
strength  and  awful  gloom  overwhelmed  her.  On  the  top  of 
the  wall,  holding  by  an  iron  railing,  there  stood  a  man  with 
a  rifle  trailing  behind  him.  He  was  looking  down  into  the 
yard  inside.  His  attitude  of  watchfulness,  his  weapon,  the 


ALBERT    FALVEY   WEBSTER     251 

unseen  thing  that  was  being  thus  fiercely  guarded,  provoked 
in  her  such  a  revulsion  that  she  came  to  a  standstill. 

What  in  the  name  of  mercy  had  she  come  here  for? 
She  began  to  tremble.  The  man  with  the  flowers  came  up 
to  her  and  halted.  From  the  prison  there  came  at  this 
instant  the  loud  clang  of  a  bell,  and  succeeding  this  a  pro- 
longed and  resonant  murmur  which  seemed  to  increase. 
Miss  Eunice  looked  hastily  around  her.  There  were  several 
people  who  must  have  heard  the  same  sounds  that  reached 
her  ears,  but  they  were  not  alarmed.  In  fact,  one  or  two  of 
them  seemed  to  be  going  to  the  prison  direct.  The  cour- 
age of  our  philanthropist  began  to  revive.  A  woman  in  a 
brick  house  opposite  suddenly  pulled  up  a  window-curtain 
and  fixed  an  amused  and  inquisitive  look  upon  her. 

This  would  have  sent  her  into  a  thrice-heated  furnace. 
"  Come,  if  you  please,"  she  commanded  the  man,  and  she 
marched  upon  the  jail. 

She  entered  at  first  a  series  of  neat  offices  in  a  wing  of 
the  structure,  and  then  she  came  to  a  small  door  made 
of  black  bars  of  iron.  A  man  stood  on  the  farther  side  of 
this,  with  a  bunch  of  large  keys.  When  he  saw  Miss  Eunice 
he  unlocked  and  opened  the  door,  and  she  passed  through. 

She  found  that  she  had  entered  a  vast,  cool,  and  lofty 
cage,  one  hundred  feet  in  diameter ;  it  had  an  iron  floor, 
and  there  were  several  people  strolling  about  here  and 
there.  Through  several  grated  apertures  the  sunlight 
streamed  with  strong  effect,  and  a  soft  breeze  swept 
around  the  cavernous  apartment. 

Without  the  cage,  before  her  and  on  either  hand,  were 
three  more  wings  of  the  building,  and  in  these  were  the 
prisoners'  corridors. 

At  the  moment  she  entered,  the  men  were  leaving  their 
cells,  and  mounting  the  stone  stairs  in  regular  order,  on 
their  way  to  the  chapel  above.  The  noisy  files  went  up 
and  down  and  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  shuffling  and 
scraping  and  making  a  great  tumult.  The  men  were  dressed 
in  blue,  and  were  seen  indistinctly  through  the  lofty  grat- 


252     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

ings.  From  above  and  below  and  all  around  her  there 
came  the  metallic  snapping  of  bolts  and  the  rattle  of  mov- 
ing bars;  and  so  significant  was  everything  of  savage  re- 
pression and  impending  violence,  that  Miss  Eunice  was 
compelled  to  say  faintly  to  herself,  "  I  am  afraid  it  will 
take  a  little  time  to  get  used  to  all  this." 

She  rested  upon  one  of  the  seats  in  the  rotunda  while 
the  chapel  services  were  being  conducted,  and  she  thus 
had  an  opportunity  to  regain  a  portion  of  her  lost  heart. 
She  felt  wonderfully  dwarfed  and  belittled,  and  her  plan  of 
recovering  souls  had,  in  some  way  or  other,  lost  much  of  its 
feasibility.  A  glance  at  her  bright  flowers  revived  her  a  little, 
as  did  also  a  surprising,  long-drawn  roar  from  over  her  head, 
to  the  tune  of  "  America."  The  prisoners  were  singing. 

Miss  Eunice  was  not  alone  in  her  intended  work,  for 
there  were  several  other  ladies,  also  with  supplies  of  flowers, 
who  with  her  awaited  until  the  prisoners  should  descend 
into  the  yard  and  be  let  loose  before  presenting  them  with 
what  they  had  brought.  Their  common  purpose  made  them 
acquainted,  and  by  the  aid  of  chat  and  sympathy  they  for- 
tified each  other. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  five  hundred  men  descended  from 
the  chapel  to  the  yard,  rushing  out  upon  its  bare  broad 
surface  as  you  have  seen  a  burst  of  water  suddenly  irrigate 
a  road-bed.  A  hoarse  and  tremendous  shout  at  once  filled 
the  air,  and  echoed  against  the  walls  like  the  threat  of  a 
volcano.  Some  of  the  wretches  waltzed  and  spun  around 
like  dervishes,  some  threw  somersaults,  some  folded  their 
arms  gravely  and  marched  up  and  down,  some  fraternized, 
some  walked  away  pondering,  some  took  off  their  tall  caps 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade,  some  looked  towards  the  ro- 
tunda with  expectation,  and  there  were  those  who  looked 
towards  it  with  contempt. 

There  led  from  the  rotunda  to  the  yard  a  flight  of  steps. 
Miss  Eunice  descended  these  steps  with  a  quaking  heart, 
and  a  turnkey  shouted  to  the  prisoners  over  her  head  that 
she  and  others  had  flowers  for  them. 


ALBERT   FALVEY  WEBSTER     253 

No  sooner  had  the  words  left  his  lips,  than  the  men 
rushed  up  pell-mell. 

This  was  a  crucial  moment. 

There  thronged  upon  Miss  Eunice  an  army  of  men  who 
were  being  punished  for  all  the  crimes  in  the  calendar. 
Each  individual  here  had  been  caged  because  he  was  either 
a  highwayman,  or  a  forger,  or  a  burglar,  or  a  ruffian,  or  a 
thief,  or  a  murderer.  The  unclean  and  frightful  tide  bore 
down  upon  our  terrified  missionary,  shrieking  and  whoop- 
ing. Every  prisoner  thrust  out  his  hand  over  the  head  of 
the  one  in  front  of  him,  and  the  foremost  plucked  at  her 
dress. 

She  had  need  of  courage.  A  sense  of  danger  and  con- 
tamination impelled  her  to  fly,  but  a  gleam  of  reason  in  the 
midst  of  her  distraction  enabled  her  to  stand  her  ground. 
She  forced  herself  to  smile,  though  she  knew  her  face  had 
grown  pale. 

She  placed  a  bunch  of  flowers  into  an  immense  hand 
which  projected  from  a  coarse  blue  sleeve  in  front  of  her ; 
the  owner  of  the  hand  was  pushed  away  so  quickly  by  those 
who  came  after  him  that  Miss  Eunice  failed  to  see  his  face. 
Her  tortured  ear  caught  a  rough  "  Thank  y',  miss  !  "  The 
spirit  of  Miss  Crofutt  revived  in  a  flash,  and  her  disciple 
thereafter  possessed  no  lack  of  nerve. 

She  plied  the  crowd  with  flowers  as  long  as  they  lasted, 
and  a  jaunty  self-possession  enabled  her  finally  to  gaze 
without  flinching  at  the  mass  of  depraved  and  wicked 
faces  with  which  she  was  surrounded.  Instead  of  retain- 
ing her  position  upon  the  steps,  she  gradually  descended 
into  the  yard,  as  did  several  other  visitors.  She  began  to 
feel  at  home ;  she  found  her  tongue,  and  her  color  came 
back  again.  She  felt  a  warm  pride  in  noticing  with  what 
care  and  respect  the  prisoners  treated  her  gifts;  they  car- 
ried them  about  with  great  tenderness,  and  some  compared 
them  with  those  of  their  friends. 

Presently  she  began  to  recall  her  plans.  It  occurred  to 
her  to  select  her  two  or  three  villains.  For  one,  she  imme- 


254     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

diately  pitched  upon  a  lean-faced  wretch  in  front  of  her. 
He  seemed  to  be  old,  for  his  back  was  bent  and  he  leaned 
upon  a  cane.  His  features  were  large,  and  they  bore  an 
expression  of  profound  gloom.  His  head  was  sunk  upon 
his  breast,  his  lofty  conical  cap  was  pulled  over  his  ears, 
and  his  shapeless  uniform  seemed  to  weigh  him  down,  so 
infirm  was  he. 

Miss  Eunice  spoke  to  him.  He  did  not  hear;  she 
spoke  again.  He  glanced  at  her  like  a  flash,  but  without 
moving ;  this  was  at  once  followed  by  a  scrutinizing  look. 
He  raised  his  head,  and  then  he  turned  toward  her  gravely. 

The  solemnity  of  his  demeanor  nearly  threw  Miss  Eunice 
off  her  balance,  but  she  mastered  herself  by  beginning  to 
talk  rapidly.  The  prisoner  leaned  over  a  little  to  hear 
better.  Another  came  up,  and  two  or  three  turned  around 
to  look.  She  bethought  herself  of  an  incident  related  in 
Miss  Crofutt's  book,  and  she  essayed  its  recital.  It  con- 
cerned a  lawyer  who  was  once  pleading  in  a  French  criminal 
court  in  behalf  of  a  man  whose  crime  had  been  committed 
under  the  influence  of  dire  want.  In  his  plea  he  described 
the  case  of  another  whom  he  knew  who  had  been  punished 
with  a  just  but  short  imprisonment  instead  of  a  long  one, 
which  the  judge  had  been  at  liberty  to  impose,  but  from 
which  he  humanely  refrained.  Miss  Eunice  happily  re- 
membered the  words  of  the  lawyer :  "  That  man  suffered 
like  the  wrong-doer  that  he  was.  He  knew  his  punishment 
was  just.  Therefore  there  lived  perpetually  in  his  breast  an 
impulse  toward  a  better  life  which  was  not  suppressed  and 
stifled  by  the  five  years  he  passed  within  the  walls  of  the 
jail.  He  came  forth  and  began  to  labor.  He  toiled  hard. 
He  struggled  against  averted  faces  and  cold  words,  and  he 
began  to  rise.  He  secreted  nothing,  faltered  at  nothing, 
and  never  stumbled.  He  succeeded ;  men  took  off  their 
hats  to  him  once  more ;  he  became  wealthy,  honorable, 
God-fearing.  I,  gentlemen,  am  that  man,  that  criminal." 
As  she  quoted  this  last  declaration,  Miss  Eunice  erected 
herself  with  burning  eyes  and  touched  herself  proudly  upon 


ALBERT   FALVEY  WEBSTER     255 

the  breast.  A  flush  crept  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  nostrils 
dilated,  and  she  grew  tall. 

She  came  back  to  earth  again,  and  found  herself  sur- 
rounded with  the  prisoners.  She  was  a  little  startled. 

"  Ah,  that  was  good !  "  ejaculated  the  old  man  upon 
whom  she  had  fixed  her  eyes.  Miss  Eunice  felt  an  inex- 
pressible sense  of  delight. 

Murmurs  of  approbation  came  from  all  of  her  listeners, 
especially  from  one  on  her  right  hand.  She  looked  around 
at  him  pleasantly. 

But  the  smile  faded  from  her  lips  on  beholding  him. 
He  was  extremely  tall  and  very  powerful.  He  overshad- 
owed her.  His  face  was  large,  ugly,  and  forbidding;  his 
gray  hair  and  beard  were  cropped  close,  his  eyebrows  met 
at  the  bridge  of  his  nose  and  overhung  his  large  eyes  like 
a  screen.  His  lips  were  very  wide,  and,  being  turned  down- 
wards at  the  corners,  they  gave  him  a  dolorous  expression. 
His  lower  jaw  was  square  and  protruding,  and  a  pair  of 
prodigious  white  ears  projected  from  beneath  his  sugar- 
loaf  cap.  He  seemed  to  take  his  cue  from  the  old  man, 
for  he  repeated  his  sentiment. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  voice  which  broke  alternately 
into  a  roar  and  a  whisper,  "  that  was  a  good  story." 

"  Y-yes,"  faltered  Miss  Eunice,  "  and  it  has  the  merit  of 
being  t-rue." 

He  replied  with  a  nod,  and  looked  absently  over  her 
head  while  he  rubbed  the  nap  upon  his  chin  with  his  hand. 
Miss  Eunice  discovered  that  his  knee  touched  the  skirt  of 
her  dress,  and  she  was  about  to  move  in  order  to  destroy 
this  contact,  when  she  remembered  that  Miss  Crofutt  would 
probably  have  cherished  the  accident  as  a  promoter  of  a 
valuable  personal  influence,  so  she  allowed  it  to  remain. 
The  lean-faced  man  was  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same 
breath  with  this  one,  therefore  she  adopted  the  superior 
villain  out  of  hand. 

She  began  to  approach  him.  She  asked  him  where  he 
lived,  meaning  to  discover  whence  he  had  come.  He 


256     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

replied  in  the  same  mixture  of  roar  and  whisper,  "Six 
undered  un  one,  North  Wing." 

Miss  Eunice  grew  scarlet.  Presently  she  recovered 
sufficiently  to  pursue  some  inquiries  respecting  the  rules 
and  customs  of  the  prison.  She  did  not  feel  that  she  was 
interesting  her  friend,  yet  it  seemed  clear  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  go  away.  His  answers  were  curt,  yet  he  swept  his 
cap  off  his  head,  implying  by  the  act  a  certain  reverence, 
which  Miss  Eunice's  vanity  permitted  her  to  exult  at. 
Therefore  she  became  more  loquacious  than  ever.  Some 
men  came  up  to  speak  with  the  prisoner,  but  he  shook 
them  off,  and  remained  in  an  attitude  of  strict  attention, 
with  his  chin  on  his  hand,  looking  now  at  the  sky,  now  at 
the  ground,  and  now  at  Miss  Eunice. 

In  handling  the  flowers  her  gloves  had  been  stained,  and 
she  now  held  them  in  her  fingers,  nervously  twisting  them 
as  she  talked.  In  the  course  of  time  she  grew  short  of 
subjects,  and,  as  her  listener  suggested  nothing,  several 
lapses  occurred ;  in  one  of  them  she  absently  spread  her 
gloves  out  in  her  palms,  meanwhile  wondering  how  the 
English  girl  acted  under  similar  circumstances. 

Suddenly  a  large  hand  slowly  interposed  itself  between 
her  eyes  and  her  gloves,  and  then  withdrew,  taking  one  of 
the  soiled  trifles  with  it. 

She  was  surprised,  but  the  surprise  was  pleasurable.  She 
said  nothing  at  first.  The  prisoner  gravely  spread  his  prize 
out  upon  his  own  palm,  and  after  looking  at  it  carefully,  he 
rolled  it  up  into  a  tight  ball  and  thrust  it  deep  in  an  inner 
pocket. 

This  act  made  the  philanthropist  aware  that  she  had 
made  progress.  She  rose  insensibly  to  the  elevation  of 
patron,  and  she  made  promises  to  come  frequently  and 
visit  her  ward  and  to  look  in  upon  him  when  he  was  at 
work;  while  saying  this  she  withdrew  a  little  from  the 
shade  his  huge  figure  had  supplied  her  with. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  but  he  hastily  took 
them  out  again.  Still  he  said  nothing  and  hung  his  head. 


ALBERT   FALVEY  WEBSTER     257 

It  was  while  she  was  in  the  mood  of  a  conqueror  that  Miss 
Eunice  went  away.  She  felt  a  touch  of  repugnance  at  step- 
ping from  before  his  eyes  a  free  woman,  therefore  she  took 
pains  to  go  when  she  thought  he  was  not  looking. 

She  pointed  him  out  to  a  turnkey,  who  told  her  he  was 
expiating  the  sins  of  assault  and  burglarious  entry.  Out- 
wardly Miss  Eunice  looked  grieved,  but  within  she  exulted 
that  he  was  so  emphatically  a  rascal. 

When  she  emerged  from  the  cool,  shadowy,  and  frown- 
ing prison  into  the  gay  sunlight,  she  experienced  a  sense 
of  bewilderment.  The  significance  of  a  lock  and  a  bar 
seemed  greater  on  quitting  them  than  it  had  when  she 
had  perceived  them  first.  The  drama  of  imprisonment  and 
punishment  oppressed  her  spirit  with  tenfold  gloom  now 
that  she  gazed  upon  the  brilliancy  and  freedom  of  the  outer 
world.  That  she  and  everybody  around  her  were  permitted 
to  walk  here  and  there  at  will,  without  question  and  limit, 
generated  within  her  an  indefinite  feeling  of  gratitude ; 
and  the  noise,  the  colors,  the  creaking  wagons,  the  myriad 
voices,  the  splendid  variety  and  change  of  all  things  excited 
a  profound  but  at  the  same  time  a  mournful  satisfaction. 

Midway  in  her  return  journey  she  was  shrieked  at  from 
a  carriage,  which  at  once  approached  the  sidewalk.  Within 
it  were  four  gay  maidens  bound  to  the  Navy- Yard,  from 
whence  they  were  to  sail,  with  a  large  party  of  people  of 
nice  assortment,  in  an  experimental  steamer,  which  was  to 
be  made  to  go  with  kerosene  lamps,  in  some  way.  They 
seized  upon  her  hands  and  cajoled  her.  Would  n't  she  go? 
They  were  to  sail  down  among  the  islands  (provided  the 
oil  made  the  wheels  and  things  go  round),  they  were  to 
lunch  at  Fort  Warren,  dine  at  Fort  Independence,  and 
dance  at  Fort  Winthrop.  Come,  please  go.  Oh,  do ! 
The  Germanians  were  to  furnish  the  music. 

Miss  Eunice  sighed,  but  shook  her  head.     She  had  not 
yet  got  the  air  of  the  prison  out  of  her  lungs,  nor  the  figure 
of  her  robber  out  of  her  eyes,  nor  the  sense  of  horror  and 
repulsion  out  of  her  sympathies. 
17 


258     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

At  another  time  she  would  have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  with  such  a  happy  crew,  but  now  she  only  shook  her 
head  again  and  was  resolute.  No  one  could  wring  a  reason 
from  her,  and  the  wondering  quartet  drove  away. 


II 

BEFORE  the  day  went,  Miss  Eunice  awoke  to  the  disagree- 
able fact  that  her  plans  had  become  shrunken  and  contracted, 
that  a  certain  something  had  curdled  her  spontaneity,  and 
that  her  ardor  had  flown  out  at  some  crevice  and  had  left 
her  with  the  dry  husk  of  an  intent. 

She  exerted  herself  to  glow  a  little,  but  she  failed.  She 
talked  well  at  the  tea-table,  but  she  did  not  tell  about  the 
glove.  This  matter  plagued  her.  She  ran  over  in  her 
mind  the  various  doings  of  Miss  Crofutt,  and  she  could  not 
conceal  from  herself  that  that  lady  had  never  given  a  glove 
to  one  of  her  wretches;  no,  nor  had  she  ever  permitted 
the  smallest  approach  to  familiarity. 

Miss  Eunice  wept  a  little.  She  was  on  the  eve  of 
despairing. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night  the  idea  presented  itself  to 
her  with  a  disagreeable  baldness.  There  was  a  thief  over 
yonder  that  possessed  a  confidence  with  her. 

They  had  found  it  necessary  to  shut  this  man  up  in  iron 
and  stone,  and  to  guard  him  with  a  rifle  with  a  large  leaden 
ball  in  it. 

This  villain  was  a  convict.  That  was  a  terrible  word, 
one  that  made  her  blood  chill. 

She,  the  admired  of  hundreds  and  the  beloved  of  a 
family,  had  done  a  secret  and  shameful  thing  of  which  she 
dared  not  tell.  In  these  solemn  hours  the  madness  of  her 
act  appalled  her. 

She  asked  herself  what  might  not  the  fellow  do  with  the 
glove  ?  Surely  he  would  exhibit  it  among  his  brutal  com- 
panions, and  perhaps  allow  it  to  pass  to  and  fro  among 


ALBERT   FALVEY   WEBSTER     259 

them.  They  would  laugh  and  joke  with  him,  and  he  would 
laugh  and  joke  in  return,  and  no  doubt  he  would  kiss  it  to 
their  great  delight.  Again,  he  might  go  to  her  friends,  and, 
by  working  upon  their  fears  and  by  threatening  an  expo- 
sure of  her,  extort  large  sums  of  money  from  them.  Again, 
might  he  not  harass  her  by  constantly  appearing  to  her  at 
all  times  and  all  places  and  making  all  sorts  of  claims  and 
demands?  Again,  might  he  not,  with  terrible  ingenuity, 
use  it  in  connection  with  some  false  key  or  some  jack-in- 
the-box,  or  some  dark-lantern,  or  something,  in  order  to 
effect  his  escape ;  or  might  he  not  tell  the  story  times 
without  count  to  some  wretched  curiosity-hunters  who 
would  advertise  her  folly  all  over  the  country,  to  her 
perpetual  misery? 

She  became  harnessed  to  this  train  of  thought.  She 
could  not  escape  from  it.  She  reversed  the  relation  that 
she  had  hoped  to  hold  toward  such  a  man,  and  she  stood 
in  his  shadow,  and  not  he  in  hers. 

In  consequence  of  these  ever-present  fears  and  sensations, 
there  was  one  day,  not  very  far  in  the  future,  that  she 
came  to  have  an  intolerable  dread  of.  This  day  was  the 
one  on  which  the  sentence  of  the  man  was  to  expire.  She 
felt  that  he  would  surely  search  for  her ;  and  that  he  would 
find  her  there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt,  for,  in  her 
surplus  of  confidence,  she  had  told  him  her  full  name,  inas- 
much as  he  had  told  her  his. 

When  she  contemplated  this  new  source  of  terror,  her 
peace  of  mind  fled  directly.  So  did  her  plans  for  philan- 
thropic labor.  Not  a  shred  remained.  The  anxiety  began 
to  tell  upon  her,  and  she  took  to  peering  out  of  a  certain 
shaded  window  that  commanded  the  square  in  front  of  her 
house.  It  was  not  long  before  she  remembered  that  for 
good  behavior  certain  days  were  deducted  from  the  con- 
victs' terms  of  imprisonment.  Therefore,  her  ruffian  might 
be  released  at  a  moment  not  anticipated  by  her.  He  might, 
in  fact,  be  discharged  on  any  day.  He  might  be  on  his 
way  towards  her  even  now. 


260    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

She  was  not  very  far  from  right,  for  suddenly  the  man 
did  appear. 

He  one  day  turned  the  corner,  as  she  was  looking  out  at 
the  window  fearing  that  she  should  see  him,  and  came  in  a 
diagonal  direction  across  the  hot,  flagged  square. 

Miss  Eunice's  pulse  leaped  into  the  hundreds.  She  glued 
her  eyes  upon  him.  There  was  no  mistake.  There  was 
the  red  face,  the  evil  eyes,  the  large  mouth,  the  gray  hair, 
and  the  massive  frame. 

What  should  she  do?  Should  she  hide?  Should  she 
raise  the  sash  and  shriek  to  the  police?  Should  she  arm 
herself  with  a  knife?  or  —  what?  In  the  name  of  mercy, 
what?  She  glared  into  the  street.  He  came  on  steadily, 
and  she  lost  him,  for  he  passed  beneath  her.  In  a  moment 
she  heard  the  jangle  of  the  bell.  She  was  petrified.  She 
heard  his  heavy  step  below.  He  had  gone  into  the  little 
reception  room  beside  the  door.  He  crossed  to  a  sofa 
opposite  the  mantel.  She  then  heard  him  get  up  and  go 
to  a  window,  then  he  walked  about,  and  then  sat  down ; 
probably  upon  a  red  leather  seat  beside  the  window. 

Meanwhile  the  servant  was  coming  to  announce  him. 
From  some  impulse,  which  was  a  strange  and  sudden  one, 
she  eluded  the  maid,  and  rushed  headlong  upon  her  danger. 
She  never  remembered  her  descent  of  the  stairs.  She  awoke 
to  cool  contemplation  of  matters  only  to  find  herself  enter- 
ing the  room. 

Had  she  made  a  mistake,  after  all  ?  It  was  a  question 
that  was  asked  and  answered  in  a  flash.  This  man  was 
pretty  erect  and  self-assured,  but  she  discerned  in  an  in- 
stant that  there  was  needed  but  the  blue  woollen  jacket  and 
the  tall  cap  to  make  him  the  wretch  of  a  month  before. 

He  said  nothing.  Neither  did  she.  He  stood  up  and 
occupied  himself  by  twisting  a  button  upon  his  waistcoat. 
She,  fearing  a  threat  or  a  demand,  stood  bridling  to  receive 
it.  She  looked  at  him  from  top  to  toe  with  parted  lips. 

He  glanced  at  her.  She  stepped  back.  He  put  the  rim 
of  his  cap  in  his  mouth  and  bit  it  once  or  twice,  and  then 


ALBERT   FALVEY   WEBSTER     261 

looked  out  at  the  window.  Still  neither  spoke.  A  voice  at 
this  instant  seemed  impossible. 

He  glanced  again  like  a  flash.  She  shrank,  and  put  her 
hands  upon  the  bolt.  Presently  he  began  to  stir.  He  put 
out  one  foot,  and  gradually  moved  forward.  He  made  an- 
other step.  He  was  going  away.  He  had  almost  reached 
the  door,  when  Miss  Eunice  articulated,  in  a  confused 
whisper,  "My  —  my  glove;  I  wish  you  would  give  me  my 
glove." 

He  stopped,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  after  passing 
his  fingers  up  and  down  upon  the  outside  of  his  coat,  said, 
with  deliberation,  in  a  husky  voice,  "  No,  mum.  I  'm  goin' 
fur  to  keep  it  as  long  as  I  live,  if  it  takes  two  thousand 
years." 

"  Keep  it ! "  she  stammered. 

"  Keep  it,"  he  replied. 

He  gave  her  an  untranslatable  look.  It  neither  frightened 
her  nor  permitted  her  to  demand  the  glove  more  emphati- 
cally. She  felt  her  cheeks  and  temples  and  her  hands  grow 
cold,  and  midway  in  the  process  of  fainting  she  saw  him 
disappear.  He  vanquished  quietly.  Deliberation  and  re- 
spect characterized  his  movements,  and  there  was  not  so 
much  as  a  jar  of  the  outer  door. 

Poor  philanthropist ! 

This  incident  nearly  sent  her  to  a  sick-bed.  She  fully 
expected  that  her  secret  would  appear  in  the  newspapers 
in  full,  and  she  lived  in  dread  of  the  onslaught  of  an  angry 
and  outraged  society. 

The  more  she  reflected  upon  what  her  possibilities  had 
been  and  how  she  had  misused  them,  the  iller  and  the  more 
distressed  she  got.  She  grew  thin  and  spare  of  flesh.  Her 
friends  became  frightened.  They  began  to  dose  her  and 
to  coddle  her.  She  looked  at  them  with  eyes  full  of  su- 
preme melancholy,  and  she  frequently  wept  upon  their 
shoulders. 

In  spite  of  her  precautions,  however,  a  thunderbolt 
slipped  in. 


262     AMERICAN  SHORT   STORIES 

One  day  her  father  read  at  the  table  an  item  that  met  his 
eye.  He  repeated  it  aloud,  on  account  of  the  peculiar 
statement  in  the  last  line  :  — 

"  Detained  on  suspicion.  —  A  rough-looking  fellow,  who 
gave  the  name  of  Gorman,  was  arrested  on  the  high-road  to 
Tuxbridge  Springs  for  suspected  complicity  in  some  recent 
robberies  in  the  neighborhood.  He  was  fortunately  able  to 
give  a  pretty  clear  account  of  his  late  whereabouts,  and  he 
was  permitted  to  depart  with  a  caution  from  the  justice. 
Nothing  was  found  upon  him  but  a  few  coppers  and  an  old 
kid  glove  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  paper." 

Miss  Eunice's  soup  spilled.  This  was  too  much,  and  she 
fainted  this  time  in  right  good  earnest ;  and  she  straightway 
became  an  invalid  of  the  settled  type.  They  put  her  to  bed. 
The  doctor  told  her  plainly  that  he  knew  she  had  a  secret, 
but  she  looked  at  him  so  imploringly  that  he  refrained  from 
telling  his  fancies ;  but  he  ordered  an  immediate  change 
of  air.  It  was  settled  at  once  that  she  should  go  to  the 
"  Springs  "  — to  Tuxbridge  Springs.  The  doctor  knew  there 
were  young  people  there,  also  plenty  of  dancing.  So  she 
journeyed  thither  with  her  pa  and  her  ma  and  with  pillows 
and  servants. 

They  were  shown  to  their  rooms,  and  strong  porters  fol- 
lowed with  the  luggage.  One  of  them  had  her  huge  trunk  upon 
his  shoulder.  He  put  it  carefully  upon  the  floor,  and  by  so 
doing  he  disclosed  the  ex-prisoner  to  Miss  Eunice  and  Miss 
Eunice  to  himself.  He  was  astonished,  but  he  remained 
silent.  But  she  must  needs  be  frightened  and  fall  into  an- 
other fit  of  trembling.  After  an  awkward  moment  he  went 
away,  while  she  called  to  her  father  and  begged  piteously 
to  be  taken  away  from  Tuxbridge  Springs  instantly.  There 
was  no  appeal.  She  hated,  hated,  HATED  Tuxbridge 
Springs,  and  she  should  die  if  she  were  forced  to  remain. 
She  rained  tears.  She  would  give  no  reason,  but  she  could 
not  stay.  No,  millions  on  millions  could  not  persuade  her ; 
go  she  must.  There  was  no  alternative.  The  party  quitted 
the  place  within  the  hour,  bag  and  baggage.  Miss  Eunice's 


ALBERT   FALVEY  WEBSTER     263 

father  was  perplexed  and  angry,  and  her  mother  would  have 
been  angry  also  if  she  had  dared. 

They  went  to  other  springs  and  stayed  a  month,  but  the 
patient's  fright  increased  each  day,  and  so  did  her  fever. 
She  was  full  of  distractions.  In  her  dreams  everybody 
laughed  at  her  as  the  one  who  had  flirted  with  a  convict. 
She  would  ever  be  pursued  with  the  tale  of  her  foolishness 
and  stupidity.  Should  she  ever  recover  her  self-respect  and 
confidence? 

She  had  become  radically  selfish.  She  forgot  the  old 
ideas  of  noble-heartedness  and  self-denial,  and  her  temper 
had  become  weak  and  childish.  She  did  not  meet  her 
puzzle  face  to  face,  but  she  ran  away  from  it  with  her 
hands  over  her  ears.  Miss  Crofutt  stared  at  her,  and  there- 
fore she  threw  Miss  Crofutt's  book  into  the  fire. 

After  two  days  of  unceasing  debate,  she  called  her  pa- 
rents, and  with  the  greatest  agitation  told  them  all. 

It  so  happened,  in  this  case,  that  events,  to  use  a  railroad 
phrase,  made  connection. 

No  sooner  had  Miss  Eunice  told  her  story  than  the  man 
came  again.  This  time  he  was  accompanied  by  a  woman. 

"  Only  get  my  glove  away  from  him,"  sobbed  the  unhappy 
one,  "  that  is  all  I  ask  !  "  This  was  a  fine  admission  !  It 
was  thought  proper  to  bring  an  officer,  and  so  a  strong  one 
was  sent  for. 

Meanwhile  the  couple  had  been  admitted  to  the  parlor. 
Miss  Eunice's  father  stationed  the  officer  at  one  door, 
while  he,  with  a  pistol,  stood  at  the  other.  Then  Miss 
Eunice  went  into  the  apartment.  She  was  wasted,  weak, 
and  nervous.  The  two  villains  got  up  as  she  came  in, 
and  bowed.  She  began  to  tremble  as  usual,  and  laid  hold 
upon  the  mantelpiece.  "How  much  do  you  want?"  she 
gasped. 

The  man  gave  the  woman  a  push  with  his  forefinger.  She 
stepped  forward  quickly  with  her  crest  up.  Her  eyes  turned, 
and  she  fixed  a  vixenish  look  upon  Miss  Eunice.  She  sud- 
denly shot  her  hand  out  from  beneath  her  shawl  and  ex- 


264     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

tended  it  at  full  length.  Across  it  lay  Miss  Eunice's  glove, 
very  much  soiled. 

"Was  that  thing  ever  yours?"  demanded  the  woman, 
shrilly. 

"Y-yes,"  said  Miss  Eunice,  faintly. 

The  woman  seemed  (if  the  apt  word  is  to  be  excused) 
staggered.  She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  looked  the  glove 
over.  The  man  shook  his  head,  and  began  to  laugh  behind 
his  hat. 

"  And  did  you  ever  give  it  to  him  ?  "  pursued  the  woman, 
pointing  over  her  shoulder  with  her  thumb. 

Miss  Eunice  nodded. 

"  Of  your  own  free  will?  " 

After  a  moment  of  silence  she  ejaculated,  in  a  whisper, 
"Yes." 

"  Now  wait,"  said  the  man,  coming  to  the  front ;  "  'nough 
has  been  said  by  you."  He  then  addressed  himself  to  Miss 
Eunice  with  the  remains  of  his  laugh  still  illuminating  his 
face. 

"This  is  my  wife's  sister,  and  she's  one  of  the  jealous 
kind.  I  love  my  wife"  (here  he  became  grave),  "and  I 
never  showed  her  any  kind  of  slight  that  I  know  of.  I  've 
always  been  fair  to  her,  and  she  "s  always  been  fair  to 
me.  Plain  sailin'  so  far ;  I  never  kep'  anything  from  her 
—  but  this."  He  reached  out  and  took  the  glove  from 
the  woman,  and  spread  it  out  upon  his  own  palm,  as  Miss 
Eunice  had  seen  him  do  once  before.  He  looked  at  it 
thoughtfully.  "  I  would  n't  tell  her  about  this ;  no,  never. 
She  was  never  very  particular  to  ask  me ;  that 's  where  her 
trust  in  me  came  in.  She  knowed  I  was  above  doing  any- 
thing out  of  the  way  —  that  is  —  I  mean  —  "  He  stam- 
mered and  blushed,  and  then  rushed  on  volubly.  "  But  her 
sister  here  thought  I  paid  too  much  attention  to  it;  she 
thought  I  looked  at  it  too  much,  and  kep'  it  secret.  So 
she  nagged  and  nagged,  and  kept  the  pitch  boilin'  until  I 
had  to  let  it  out:  I  told  'em"  (Miss  Eunice  shivered). 
" '  No,'  says  she,  my  wife's  sister,  '  that  won't  do,  Gorman. 


ALBERT   FALVEY   WEBSTER     265 

That 's  chaff,  and  I  'm  too  old  a  bird.'  Ther'fore  I  fetched 
her  straight  to  you,  so  she  could  put  the  question  direct." 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  if  in  doubt  how  to  go  on.  Miss 
Eunice  began  to  open  her  eyes,  and  she  released  the  man- 
tel. The  man  resumed  with  something  like  impressiveness  : 

"When  you  last  held  that,"  said  he,  slowly,  balancing  the 
glove  in  his  hand,  "  I  was  a  wicked  man  with  bad  inten- 
tions through  and  through.  When  I  first  held  it  I  became 
an  honest  man,  with  good  intentions." 

A  burning  blush  of  shame  covered  Miss  Eunice's  face 
and  neck. 

"  An'  as  I  kep'  it  my  intentions  went  on  improvin'  and 
improvin',  till  I  made  up  my  mind  to  behave  myself  in 
future,  forever.  Do  you  understand  ?  —  forever.  No  back- 
slidin',  no  hitchin',  no  slippin'-up.  I  take  occasion  to  say, 
miss,  that  I  was  beset  time  and  again ;  that  the  instant  I 
set  my  foot  outside  them  prison-gates,  over  there,  my  old 
chums  got  round  me ;  but  I  shook  my  head.  '  No,'  says  I, 
'  I  won't  go  back  on  the  glove.'  " 

Miss  Eunice  hung  her  head.  The  two  had  exchanged 
places,  she  thought;  she  was  the  criminal  and  he  the 
judge. 

"An1  what  is  more,"  continued  he,  with  the  same  weight 
in  his  tone,  "  I  not  only  kep'  sight  of  the  glove,  but  I  kep' 
sight  of  the  generous  sperrit  that  gave  it.  I  did  n't  let 
that  go.  I  never  forgot  what  you  meant.  I  knowed  —  I 
knowed,"  repeated  he,  lifting  his  forefinger,  —  "I  knowed  a 
time  would  come  when  there  would  n't  be  any  enthoosiasm, 
any  '  hurrah,'  and  then  perhaps  you  'd  be  sorry  you  was  so 
kind  to  me ;  an'  the  time  did  come." 

Miss  Eunice  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept 
aloud. 

"But  did  I  quit  the  glove?  No,  mum.  I  held  on  to 
it.  It  was  what  I  fought  by.  I  was  n't  going  to  give  it  up, 
because  it  was  asked  for.  All  the  police-officers  in  the  city 
couldn't  have  took  it  from  me.  I  put  it  deep  into  my 
pocket  and  I  walked  out.  It  was  differcult,  miss.  But  I 


266     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

come  through.  The  glove  did  it.  It  helped  me  stand  out 
against  temptation  when  it  was  strong.  If  I  looked  at  it, 
I  remembered  that  once  there  was  a  pure  heart  that  pitied 
me.  It  cheered  me  up.  After  a  while  I  kinder  got  out  of 
the  mud.  Then  I  got  work.  The  glove  again.  Then  a 
girl  that  kuowed  me  before  I  took  to  bad  ways  married  me, 
and  no  questions  asked.  Then  I  just  took  the  glove  into  a 
dark  corner  and  blessed  it." 

Miss  Eunice  was  belittled. 

A  noise  was  heard  in  the  hall-way.  Miss  Eunice's  father 
and  the  policeman  were  going  away. 

The  awkwardness  of  the  succeeding  silence  was  relieved 
by  the  moving  of  the  man  and  the  woman.  They  had 
done  their  errand,  and  were  going. 

Said  Miss  Eunice,  with  the  faint  idea  of  making  a  practi- 
cal apology  to  her  visitor,  "  I  shall  go  to  the  prison  once 
a  week  after  this,  I  think." 

"Then  may  God  bless  ye,  miss,"  said  the  man.  He 
came  back  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  took  her  proffered 
hand  for  an  instant.  Then  he  and  his  wife's  sister  went 
away. 

Miss  Eunice's  remaining  spark  of  charity  at  once  crackled 
and  burst  into  a  flame.  There  is  sure  to  be  a  little  some- 
thing that  is  bad  in  everybody's  philanthropy  when  it  is 
first  put  to  use ;  it  requires  to  be  filed  down  like  a  faulty 
casting  before  it  will  run  without  danger  to  anybody.  Sa- 
maritanism  that  goes  off  with  half  a  charge  is  sure  to  do 
great  mischief  somewhere ;  but  Miss  Eunice's,  now  properly 
corrected,  henceforth  shot  off  at  the  proper  end,  and  in- 
evitably hit  the  mark.  She  purchased  a  new  Crofutt. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR 

1825  - 1878 

BAYARD  TAYLOR,  in  the  '6o's  and  '70'$,  was  among  the  best 
known  of  our  men  of  letters.  Typical  American  in  enterprise 
and  resource,  he  gave  most  of  his  life  to  foreign  lands  and 
letters.  Views  Afoot  (1846),  which  has  sent  across  the  Atlantic 
hundreds  of  young  Americans  like  him  in  large  ambition  and 
small  purse,  was  the  first  of  a  series  extending  through  his  life. 
For  a  really  Viking  spirit  of  travel  urged  him  over  the  habitable 
globe,  from  Africa  to  Iceland,  from  California  to  Japan.  The 
store  of  observations  first  made  newspaper  correspondence. 
His  profession  was  journalism.  Some  of  the  material  was  sub- 
sequently cast  in  lectures;  most  of  it  appeared  finally  in  books. 
Thus  his  trip  across  the  world  (1851-1853)  to  join  Perry  fur- 
nished, first,  copy  for  the  New  York  "  Tribune,"  then  many 
popular  lectures,  and  finally  The  Lands  of  the  Saracen  (1854) 
and  A  Visit  to  India,  China  and  Japan  (1855).  His  wide 
knowledge  of  foreign  societies  and  his  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Germany  brought  him  naturally  into  public  life  as  minister 
to  Berlin  (1877-1878). 

Admirable  journalist,  Taylor  was  not  content  with  journalism. 
In  1863  at  Gotha,  where  he  had  found  a  wife  in  1857,  he  was 
deep  in  the  study  of  Goethe.  From  1868-1870,  after  interven- 
ing travels,  he  gave  himself  to  the  translation  of  "  Faust."  Lec- 
turing then  at  Cornell  as  Professor  of  German  Literature,  he 
went  back  to  Germany  to  pursue  Goethe  still  further  at  Weimar. 
So  his  knowledge  of  Scandinavia  was  of  the  literature  as  well 
as  of  the  land. 

His  great  ambition,  and  doubtless  his  measure  of  success, 
was  poetry.  From  his  youthful  ventures  in  Philadelphia  almost 
to  the  day  of  his  death  he  published  verse ;  and  the  recognition 
of  the  public  appears  in  the  choice  of  him  to  read  the  Harvard 
$  B  K  poem  in  1850  and  the  National  Ode  at  the  Centennial 


268     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

Exposition  of  1876.  Since  his  death  this  part  of  his  work  has 
been  so  far  slighted  that  there  is  some  need  of  recalling  his 
consistently  high  aim  and  the  technical  mastery  evinced  by  per- 
formances so  widely  different  as  the  delicious  parodies  of  The 
Echo  Club  and  the  noble  rendering  of  "  Faust."  No  criticism 
of  Taylor  as  a  poet  should  obscure  the  fact  that  his  "  Faust " 
takes  rank  with  the  few  great  verse  translations. 

Taylor's  versatility  achieved  also  a  lesser,  but  still  a  consider- 
able, success  in  novels  and  tales.  The  interest  aroused  by  the 
lively  opening  of  Who  Was  She?  is  sustained  with  no  little 
art  Perhaps  the  import  would  be  more  poignant  if  it  were  less 
dangerously  near  to  abstract  proposition  ;  but  it  is  very  human. 


WHO   WAS   SHE? 

[From  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  September,  1874] 

COME,  now,  there  may  as  well  be  an  end  of  this  ! 
Every  time  I  meet  your  eyes  squarely,  I  detect  the 
question  just  slipping  out  of  them.  If  you  had  spoken  it, 
or  even  boldly  looked  it ;  if  you  had  shown  in  your  motions 
the  least  sign  of  a  fussy  or  fidgety  concern  on  my  account ; 
if  this  were  not  the  evening  of  my  birthday,  and  you  the 
only  friend  who  remembered  it;  if  confession  were  not 
good  for  the  soul,  though  harder  than  sin  to  some  people, 
of  whom  I  am  one,  —  well,  if  all  reasons  were  not  at  this 
instant  converged  into  a  focus,  and  burning  me  rather  vio- 
lently, in  that  region  where  the  seat  of  emotion  is  supposed 
to  lie,  1  should  keep  my  trouble  to  myself. 

Yes,  I  have  fifty  times  had  it  on  my  mind  to  tell  you  the 
whole  story.  But  who  can  be  certain  that  his  best  friend 
will  not  smile  —  or,  what  is  worse,  cherish  a  kind  of  char- 
itable pity  ever  afterwards  —  when  the  external  forms  of  a 
very  serious  kind  of  passion  seem  trivial,  fantastic,  foolish? 
And  the  worst  of  all  is  that  the  heroic  part  which  I  imagined 
I  was  playing  proves  to  have  been  almost  the  reverse.  The 
only  comfort  which  I  can  find  in  my  humiliation  is  that  I 
am  capable  of  feeling  it.  There  is  n't  a  bit  of  a  paradox  in 
this,  as  you  will  see ;  but  I  only  mention  it,  now,  to  prepare 
you  for,  maybe,  a  little  morbid  sensitiveness  of  my  moral 
nerves. 

The  documents  are  all  in  this  portfolio,  under  my  elbow. 
I  had  just  read  them  again  completely  through,  when  you 
were  announced.  You  may  examine  them  as  you  like,  after- 
wards :  for  the  present,  fill  your  glass,  take  another  Cabana, 
269 


270    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

and  keep  silent  until  my  "  ghastly  tale  "  has  reached  its 
most  lamentable  conclusion. 

The  beginning  of  it  was  at  Wampsocket  Springs,  three 
years  ago  last  summer.  I  suppose  most  unmarried  men 
who  have  reached,  or  passed,  the  age  of  thirty  —  and  I 
was  then  thirty-three  —  experience  a  milder  return  of  their 
adolescent  warmth,  a  kind  of  fainter  second  spring,  since 
the  first  has  not  fulfilled  its  promise.  Of  course,  I  was  n't 
clearly  conscious  of  this  at  the  time  :  who  is  ?  But  I  had 
had  my  youthful  passion  and  my  tragic  disappointment,  as 
you  know :  I  had  looked  far  enough  into  what  Thackeray 
used  to  call  the  cryptic  mysteries,  to  save  me  from  the 
Scylla  of  dissipation,  and  yet  preserved  enough  of  natural 
nature  to  keep  me  out  of  the  Pharisaic  Charybdis.  My 
devotion  to  my  legal  studies  had  already  brought  me  a  mild 
distinction ;  the  paternal  legacy  was  a  good  nest-egg  for  the 
incubation  of  wealth,  —  in  short,  I  was  a  fair,  respectable 
"  party,"  desirable  to  the  humbler  mammas,  and  not  to  be 
despised  by  the  haughty  exclusives. 

The  fashionable  hotel  at  the  Springs  holds  three  hundred, 
and  it  was  packed.  I  had  meant  to  lounge  there  for  a 
fortnight  and  then  finish  my  holidays  at  Long  Branch ;  but 
eighty,  at  least,  out  of  the  three  hundred,  were  young  and 
moved  lightly  in  muslin.  With  my  years  and  experience  I 
felt  so  safe,  that  to  walk,  talk,  or  dance  with  them  became 
simply  a  luxury,  such  as  I  had  never  —  at  least  so  freely  — 
possessed  before.  My  name  and  standing,  known  to  some 
families,  were  agreeably  exaggerated  to  the  others,  and  I 
enjoyed  that  supreme  satisfaction  which  a  man  always  feels 
when  he  discovers,  or  imagines,  that  he  is  popular  in  society. 
There  is  a  kind  of  premonitory  apology  implied  in  my  say- 
ing this,  I  am  aware.  You  must  remember  that  I  am  cul- 
prit, and  culprit's  counsel,  at  the  same  time. 

You  have  never  been  at  Wampsocket?  Well,  the  hills 
sweep  around  in  a  crescent,  on  the  northern  side,  and  four 
or  five  radiating  glens,  descending  from  them,  unite  just 
above  the  village.  The  central  one,  leading  to  a  water-fall 


BAYARD   TAYLOR  271 

(called  "  Minne-hehe "  by  the  irreverent  young  people, 
because  there  is  so  little  of  it),  is  the  fashionable  drive 
and  promenade ;  but  the  second  ravine  on  the  left,  steep, 
crooked,  and  cumbered  with  bowlders  which  have  tumbled 
from  somewhere  and  lodged  in  the  most  extraordinary 
groupings,  became  my  favorite  walk  of  a  morning.  There 
was  a  footpath  in  it,  well-trodden  at  first,  but  gradually  fad- 
ing out  as  it  became  more  like  a  ladder  than  a  path,  and 
I  soon  discovered  that  no  other  city  feet  than  mine  were 
likely  to  scale  a  certain  rough  slope  which  seemed  the  end 
of  the  ravine.  With  the  aid  of  the  tough  laurel-stems  I 
climbed  to  the  top,  passed  through  a  cleft  as  narrow  as  a 
doorway,  and  presently  found  myself  in  a  little  upper  dell, 
as  wild  and  sweet  and  strange  as  one  of  the  pictures  that 
haunts  us  on  the  brink  of  sleep. 

There  was  a  pond  —  no,  rather  a  bowl  —  of  water  in  the 
centre  ;  hardly  twenty  yards  across,  yet  the  sky  in  it  was  so 
pure  and  far  down  that  the  circle  of  rocks  and  summer  foli- 
age inclosing  it  seemed  like  a  little  planetary  ring,  floating 
off  alone  through  space.  I  can't  explain  the  charm  of  the 
spot,  nor  the  selfishness  which  instantly  suggested  that  I 
should  keep  the  discovery  to  myself.  Ten  years  earlier, 
I  should  have  looked  around  for  some  fair  spirit  to  be  my 
"  minister,"  but  now  — 

One  forenoon  —  I  think  it  was  the  third  or  fourth  time  I 
had  visited  the  place  —  I  was  startled  to  find  the  dint  of  a 
heel  in  the  earth,  half-way  up  the  slope.  There  had  been 
rain  during  the  night  and  the  earth  was  still  moist  and  soft. 
It  was  the  mark  of  a  woman's  boot,  only  to  be  distinguished 
from  that  of  a  walking-stick  by  its  semicircular  form.  A 
little  higher,  I  found  the  outline  of  a  foot,  not  so  small  as 
to  awake  an  ecstasy,  but  with  a  suggestion  of  lightness,  elas- 
ticity, and  grace.  If  hands  were  thrust  through  holes  in  a 
board-fence,  and  nothing  of  the  attached  bodies  seen,  I  can 
easily  imagine  that  some  would  attract  and  others  repel  us : 
with  footprints  the  impression  is  weaker,  of  course,  but  we 
cannot  escape  it.  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  wanted  to  find 


272     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the  unknown  wearer  of  the  boot  within  my  precious  personal 
solitude  :  I  was  afraid  I  should  see  her,  while  passing  through 
the  rocky  crevice,  and  yet  was  disappointed  when  I  found 
no  one. 

But  on  the  flat,  warm  rock  overhanging  the  tarn  —  my 
special  throne  —  lay  some  withering  wild-flowers,  and  a 
book !  I  looked  up  and  down,  right  and  left :  there  was 
not  the  slightest  sign  of  another  human  life  than  mine. 
Then  I  lay  down  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  listened  : 
there  were  only  the  noises  of  bird  and  squirrel,  as  before. 
At  last,  I  took  up  the  book,  the  flat  breadth  of  which  sug- 
gested only  sketches.  There  were,  indeed,  some  tolerable 
studies  of  rocks  and  trees  on  the  first  pages ;  a  few  not  very 
striking  caricatures,  which  seemed  to  have  been  commenced 
as  portraits,  but  recalled  no  faces  I  knew ;  then  a  number 
of  fragmentary  notes,  written  in  pencil.  I  found  no  name, 
from  first  to  last ;  only,  under  the  sketches,  a  monogram  so 
complicated  and  laborious  that  the  initials  could  hardly  be 
discovered  unless  one  already  knew  them. 

The  writing  was  a  woman 's,  but  it  had  surely  taken  its 
character  from  certain  features  of  her  own :  it  was  clear, 
firm,  individual.  It  had  nothing  of  that  air  of  general  de- 
bility which  usually  marks  the  manuscript  of  young  ladies, 
yet  its  firmness  was  far  removed  from  the  stiff,  conventional 
slope  which  all  Englishwomen  seem  to  acAiire  in  youth  and 
retain  through  life.  I  don't  see  how  anyk  man  in  my  situa- 
tion could  have  helped  reading  a  few  lines  —  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  restoring  lost  property.  But  I  was  drawn  on,  and 
on,  and  finished  by  reading  all :  thence,  since  no  further 
harm  could  be  done,  I  re-read,  pondering  over  certain  pas- 
sages until  they  stayed  with  me.  Here  they  are,  as  I  set 
them  down,  that  evening,  on  the  back  of  a  legal  blank. 

"  It  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  whether  we  wear 
social  forms  as  bracelets  or  handcuffs." 

"  Can  we  not  still  be  wholly  our  independent  selves,  even 
while  doing,  in  the  main,  as  others  do?  I  know  two  who 
are  so ;  but  they  are  married." 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  273 

"  The  men  who  admire  these  bold,  dashing  young  girls 
treat  them  like  weaker  copies  of  themselves.  And  yet  they 
boast  of  what  they  call  '  experience  ! '  " 

"  I  wonder  if  any  one  felt  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
noon  as  I  did,  to-day  ?  A  faint  appreciation  of  sunsets  and 
storms  is  taught  us  in  youth,  and  kept  alive  by  novels  and 
flirtations ;  but  the  broad,  imperial  splendor  of  this  sum- 
mer noon  !  —  and  myself  standing  alone  in  it,  —  yes,  utterly 
alone  ! " 

"  The  men  I  seek  must  exist :  where  are  they  ?  How 
make  an  acquaintance,  when  one  obsequiously  bows  him- 
self away,  as  I  advance  ?  The  fault  is  surely  not  all  on  my 
side." 

There  was  much  more,  intimate  enough  to  inspire  me 
with  a  keen  interest  in  the  writer,  yet  not  sufficiently  so  to 
make  my  perusal  a  painful  indiscretion.  I  yielded  to  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  took  out  my  pencil,  and  wrote  a 
dozen  lines  on  one  of  the  blank  pages.  They  ran  some- 
thing in  this  wise  :  — 

"  IGNOTUS  IGNOT.E  !  —  You  have  bestowed  without  intending 
it,  and  I  have  taken  without  your  knowledge.  Do  not  regret  the 
accident  which  has  enriched  another.  This  concealed  idyl  of 
the  hills  was  mine,  as  I  supposed,  but  I  acknowledge  your  equal 
right  to  it.  Shall  we  share  the  possession,  or  will  you  banish 
me?" 

There  was  a  frank  advance,  tempered  by  a  proper  caution, 
I  fancied,  in  the  words  I  wrote.  It  was  evident  that  she 
was  unmarried,  but  outside  of  that  certainty  there  lay  a  vast 
range  of  possibilities,  some  of  them  alarming  enough. 
However,  if  any  nearer  acquaintance  should  arise  out  of  the 
incident,  the  next  step  must  be  taken  by  her.  Was  I  one 
of  the  men  she  sought  ?  I  almost  imagined  so  —  certainly 
hoped  so. 

I  laid  the  book  on  the  rock,  as  I  had  found  it,  bestowed 
another  keen  scrutiny  on  the  lonely  landscape,  and  then  de- 
scended the  ravine.  That  evening,  I  went  early  to  the 
il 


274     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

ladies'  parlor,  chatted  more  than  usual  with  the  various 
damsels  whom  I  knew,  and  watched  with  a  new  interest 
those  whom  I  knew  not.  My  mind,  involuntarily,  had  al- 
ready created  a  picture  of  the  unknown.  She  might  be 
twenty-five,  I  thought :  a  reflective  habit  of  mind  would 
hardly  be  developed  before  that  age.  Tall  and  stately,  of 
course ;  distinctly  proud  in  her  bearing,  and  somewhat  re- 
served in  her  manners.  Why  she  should  have  large  dark 
eyes,  with  long  dark  lashes,  I  could  not  tell ;  but  so  I  seemed 
to  see  her.  Quite  forgetting  that  I  was  (or  had  meant  to 
be)  Ignotus,  I  found  myself  staring  rather  significantly  at 
one  or  the  other  of  the  young  ladies,  in  whom  I  discovered 
some  slight  general  resemblance  to  the  imaginary  character. 
My  fancies,  I  must  confess,  played  strange  pranks  with  me. 
They  had  been  kept  in  a  coop  so  many  years,  that  now, 
when  I  suddenly  turned  them  loose,  their  rickety  attempts 
at  flight  quite  bewildered  me. 

No !  there  was  no  use  in  expecting  a  sudden  discovery. 
I  went  to  the  glen  betimes,  next  morning :  the  book  was 
gone,  and  so  were  the  faded  flowers,  but  some  of  the  latter 
were  scattered  over  the  top  of  another  rock,  a  few  yards 
from  mine.  Ha  !  this  means  that  I  am  not  to  withdraw,  I 
said  to  myself:  she  makes  room  for  me  !  But  how  to  sur- 
prise her?  —  for  by  this  time  I  was  fully  resolved  to  make 
her  acquaintance,  even  though  she  might  turn  out  to  be 
forty,  scraggy  and  sandy-haired. 

I  knew  no  other  way  so  likely  as  that  of  visiting  the  glen 
at  all  times  of  the  day.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  write  a 
line  of  greeting,  with  a  regret  that  our  visits  had  not  yet 
coincided,  and  laid  it  under  a  stone  on  the  top  of  her  rock. 
The  note  disappeared,  but  there  was  no  answer  in  its  place. 
Then  I  suddenly  remembered  her  fondness  for  the  noon 
hours,  at  which  time  she  was  "utterly  alone."  The  hotel 
table  d'hote  was  at  one  o'clock :  her  family,  doubtless,  dined 
later,  in  their  own  rooms.  Why,  this  gave  me,  at  least,  her 
place  in  society  !  The  question  of  age,  to  be  sure,  remained 
unsettled ;  but  all  else  was  safe. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR  275 

The  next  day  I  took  a  late  and  large  breakfast,  and  sac- 
rificed my  dinner.  Before  noon  the  guests  had  all  straggled 
back  to  the  hotel  from  glen  and  grove  and  lane,  so  bright 
and  hot  was  the  sunshine.  Indeed,  I  could  hardly  have 
supported  the  reverberation  of  heat  from  the  sides  of  the 
ravine,  but  for  a  fixed  belief  that  I  should  be  successful. 
While  crossing  the  narrow  meadow  upon  which  it  opened, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  white  among  the  thickets 
higher  up.  A  moment  later,  it  had  vanished,  and  I  quick- 
ened my  pace,  feeling  the  beginning  of  an  absurd  nervous 
excitement  in  my  limbs.  At  the  next  turn,  there  it  was 
again  !  but  only  for  another  moment.  I  paused,  exulting, 
and  wiped  my  drenched  forehead.  "She  cannot  escape 
me  ! "  I  murmured  between  the  deep  draughts  of  cooler  air 
I  inhaled  in  the  shadow  of  a  rock. 

A  few  hundred  steps  more  brought  me  to  the  foot  of  the 
steep  ascent,  where  I  had  counted  on  overtaking  her.  I  was 
too  late  for  that,  but  the  dry,  baked  soil  had  surely  been 
crumbled  and  dislodged,  here  and  there,  by  a  rapid  foot.  I 
followed,  in  reckless  haste,  snatching  at  the  laurel-branches 
right  and  left,  and  paying  little  heed  to  my  footing.  About 
one  third  of  the  way  up  I  slipped,  fell,  caught  a  bush  which 
snapped  at  the  root,  slid,  whirled  over,  and  before  I  fairly 
knew  what  had  happened,  I  was  lying  doubled  up  at  the 
bottom  of  the  slope. 

I  rose,  made  two  steps  forward,  and  then  sat  down  with  a 
groan  of  pain ;  my  left  ankle  was  badly  sprained,  in  addi- 
tion to  various  minor  scratches  and  bruises.  There  was  a 
revulsion  of  feeling,  of  course,  —  instant,  complete,  and 
hideous.  I  fairly  hated  the  Unknown.  "Fool  that  I  was  !  " 
I  exclaimed,  in  the  theatrical  manner,  dashing  the  palm  of 
my  hand  softly  against  my  brow :  "  lured  to  this  by  the  fair 
traitress  !  But,  no  !  —  not  fair  :  she  shows  the  artfulness  of 
faded,  desperate  spinsterhood ;  she  is  all  compact  of  enamel, 
*  liquid  bloom  of  youth '  and  hair-dye  !  " 

There  was  a  fierce  comfort  in  this  thought,  but  it  could  n't 
help  me  out  of  the  scrape.  I  dared  not  sit  still,  lest  a  sun- 


276     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

stroke  should  be  added,  and  there  was  no  resource  but  to 
hop  or  crawl  down  the  rugged  path,  in  the  hope  of  finding 
a  forked  sapling  from  which  I  could  extemporize  a  crutch. 
With  endless  pain  and  trouble  I  reached  a  thicket,  and  was 
feebly  working  on  a  branch  with  my  pen-knife,  when  the 
sound  of  a  heavy  footstep  surprised  me. 

A  brown  harvest-hand,  in  straw  hat  and  shirt-sleeves, 
presently  appeared.  He  grinned  when  he  saw  me,  and  the 
thick  snub  of  his  nose  would  have  seemed  like  a  sneer  at 
any  other  time. 

"  Are  you  the  gentleman  that  got  hurt?  "  he  asked.  " Is 
it  pretty  tolerable  bad?  " 

"Who  said  I  was  hurt?"  I  cried,  in  astonishment. 

"  One  of  your  town- women  from  the  hotel  —  I  reckon 
she  was.  I  was  binding  oats,  in  the  field  over  the  ridge ; 
but  I  have  n't  lost  no  time  in  comin'  here." 

While  I  was  stupidly  staring  at  this  announcement,  he 
whipped  out  a  big  clasp  knife,  and  in  a  few  minutes  fash- 
ioned me  a  practicable  crutch.  Then,  taking  me  by  the 
other  arm,  he  set  me  in  motion  towards  the  village. 

Grateful  as  I  was  for  the  man's  help,  he  aggravated  me 
by  his  ignorance.  When  I  asked  if  he  knew  the  lady,  he 
answered:  "It's  more 'n  likely  you  know  her  better." 
But  where  did  she  come  from?  Down  from  the  hill,  he 
guessed,  but  it  might  ha'  been  up  the  road.  How  did  she 
look?  was  she  old  or  young?  what  was  the  color  of  her 
eyes?  of  her  hair?  There,  now,  I  was  too  much  for  him. 
When  a  woman  kept  one  o'  them  speckled  veils  over  her 
face,  turned  her  head  away,  and  held  her  parasol  between, 
how  were  you  to  know  her  from  Adam?  I  declare  to  you, 
I  could  n't  arrive  at  one  positive  particular.  Even  when 
he  affirmed  that  she  was  tall,  he  added,  the  next  instant : 
"  Now  I  come  to  think  on  it,  she  stepped  mighty  quick ; 
so  I  guess  she  must  ha'  been  short." 

By  the  time  we  reached  the  hotel,  I  was  in  a  state  of 
fever ;  opiates  and  lotions  had  their  will  of  me  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  I  was  glad  to  escape  the  worry  of  questions, 


BAYARD   TAYLOR  277 

and  the  conventional  sympathy  expressed  in  inflections  of 
the  voice  which  are  meant  to  soothe,  and  only  exasperate. 
The  next  morning,  as  I  lay  upon  my  sofa,  restful,  patient, 
and  properly  cheerful,  the  waiter  entered  with  a  bouquet  of 
wild  flowers. 

"  Who  sent  them  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  found  them  outside  your  door,  sir.  Maybe  there 's  a 
card ;  yes,  here  's  a  bit  o'  paper." 

I  opened  the  twisted  slip  he  handed  me,  and  read : 
"From  your  dell  —  and  mine."  I  took  the  flowers; 
among  them  were  two  or  three  rare  and  beautiful  varieties, 
which  I  had  only  found  in  that  one  spot.  Fool,  again  !  I 
noiselessly  kissed,  while  pretending  to  smell  them,  had  them 
placed  on  a  stand  within  reach,  and  fell  into  a  state  of 
quiet  and  agreeable  contemplation. 

Tell  me,  yourself,  whether  any  male  human  being  is  ever 
too  old  for  sentiment,  provided  that  it  strikes  him  at  the 
right  time  and  in  the  right  way  !  What  did  that  bunch  of 
wild  flowers  betoken  ?  Knowledge,  first ;  then,  sympathy ; 
and  finally,  encouragement,  at  least.  Of  course  she  had 
seen  my  accident,  from  above ;  of  course  she  had  sent  the 
harvest  laborer  to  aid  me  home.  It  was  quite  natural  she 
should  imagine  some  special,  romantic  interest  in  the  lonely 
dell,  on  my  part,  and  the  gift  took  additional  value  from 
her  conjecture. 

Four  days  afterwards,  there  was  a  hop  in  the  large  dining- 
room  of  the  hotel.  Early  in  the  morning,  a  fresh  bouquet 
had  been  left  at  my  door.  I  was  tired  of  my  enforced 
idleness,  eager  to  discover  the  fair  unknown,  (she  was  again 
fair,  to  my  fancy  !)  and  I  determined  to  go  down,  believing 
that  a  cane  and  a  crimson  velvet  slipper,  on  the  left  foot 
would  provoke  a  glance  of  sympathy  from  certain  eyes,  and 
thus  enable  me  to  detect  them. 

The  fact  was,  the  sympathy  was  much  too  general  and 
effusive.  Everybody,  it  seemed,  came  to  me  with  kindly 
greetings ;  seats  were  vacated  at  my  approach,  even  fat 
Mrs.  Huxter  insisting  on  my  taking  her  warm  place,  at  the 


278     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

head  of  the  room.  But  Bob  Leroy,  —  you  know  him,  —  as 
gallant  a  gentleman  as  ever  lived,  put  me  down  at  the  right 
point,  and  kept  me  there.  He  only  meant  to  divert  me,  yet 
gave  me  the  only  place  where  I  could  quietly  inspect  all  the 
younger  ladies,  as  dance  or  supper  brought  them  near. 

One  of  the  dances  was  an  old-fashioned  cotillon,  and  one 
of  the  figures,  the  "coquette,"  brought  every  one,  in  turn, 
before  me.  I  received  a  pleasant  word  or  two  from  those 
whom  I  knew,  and  a  long,  kind,  silent  glance  from  Miss 
May  Danvers.  Where  had  been  my  eyes?  She  was  tall, 
stately,  twenty-five,  had  large  dark  eyes,  and  long  dark 
lashes  !  Again  the  changes  of  the  dance  brought  her  near 
me ;  I  threw  (or  strove  to  throw)  unutterable  meanings 
into  my  eyes,  and  cast  them  upon  hers.  She  seemed 
startled,  looked  suddenly  away,  looked  back  to  me,  and  — 
blushed.  I  knew  her  for  what  is  called  "a  nice  girl"  — 
that  is,  tolerably  frank,  gently  feminine,  and  not  dangerously 
intelligent.  Was  it  possible  that  I  had  overlooked  so  much 
character  and  intellect? 

As  the  cotillon  closed,  she  was  again  in  my  neighborhood, 
and  her  partner  led  her  in  my  direction.  I  was  rising  pain- 
fully from  my  chair,  when  Bob  Leroy  pushed  me  down 
again,  whisked  another  seat  from  somewhere,  planted  it  at 
my  side,  and  there  she  was  ! 

She  knew  who  was  her  neighbor,  I  plainly  saw ;  but  in- 
stead of  turning  towards  me,  she  began  to  fan  herself  in  a 
nervous  way  and  to  fidget  with  the  buttons  of  her  gloves. 
I  grew  impatient. 

"  Miss  Danvers  !  "  I  said,  at  last. 

"  Oh ! "  was  all  her  answer,  as  she  looked  at  me  for  a 
moment. 

"Where  are  your  thoughts?"  I  asked. 

Then  she  turned,  with  wide,  astonished  eyes,  coloring 
softly  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  My  heart  gave  a  sudden 
leap. 

"  How  can  you  tell,  if  I  cannot?  "  she  asked. 

"May  I  guess?" 


BAYARD   TAYLOR  279 

She  made  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head,  saying  nothing. 
I  was  then  quite  sure. 

"The  second  ravine,  to  the  left  of  the  main  drive?" 

This  time  she  actually  started  ;  her  color  became  deeper, 
and  a  leaf  of  the  ivory  fan  snapped  between  her  fingers. 

"  Let  there  be  no  more  a  secret !  "  I  exclaimed. 
"  Your  flowers  have  brought  me  your  messages ;  I  knew  I 
should  find  you  "  — 

Full  of  certainty,  I  was  speaking  in  a  low,  impassioned 
voice.  She  cut  me  short  by  rising  from  her  seat ;  I  felt 
that  she  was  both  angry  and  alarmed.  Fisher,  of  Philadel- 
phia, jostling  right  and  left  in  his  haste,  made  his  way 
towards  her.  She  fairly  snatched  his  arm,  clung  to  it  with 
a  warmth  I  had  never  seen  expressed  in  a  ball-room,  and 
began  to  whisper  in  his  ear.  It  was  not  five  minutes  before 
he  came  to  me,  alone,  with  a  very  stern  face,  bent  down, 
and  said :  — 

"  If  you  have  discovered  our  secret,  you  will  keep  silent. 
You  are  certainly  a  gentleman." 

I  bowed,  coldly  and  savagely.  There  was  a  draft  from 
the  open  window ;  my  ankle  became  suddenly  weary  and 
painful,  and  I  went  to  bed.  Can  you  believe  that  I  did  n't 
guess,  immediately,  what  it  all  meant?  In  a  vague  way,  I 
fancied  that  I  had  been  premature  in  my  attempt  to  drop 
our  mutual  incognito,  and  that  Fisher,  a  rival  lover,  was 
jealous  of  me.  This  was  rather  flattering  than  otherwise ; 
but  when  I  limped  down  to  the  ladies'  parlor,  the  next  day, 
no  Miss  Danvers  was  to  be  seen.  I  did  not  venture  to  ask 
for  her ;  it  might  seem  importunate,  and  a  woman  of  so 
much  hidden  capacity  was  evidently  not  to  be  wooed  in  the 
ordinary  way. 

So  another  night  passed  by ;  and  then,  with  the  morning, 
came  a  letter  which  made  me  feel,  at  the  same  instant,  like 
a  fool  and  a  hero.  It  had  been  dropped  in  the  Wamp- 
socket  post-office,  was  legibly  addressed  to  me  and  delivered 
with  some  other  letters  which  had  arrived  by  the  night  mail. 
Here  it  is ;  listen  ! 


28o    AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

"  NOTO  IGNOTA  !  —  Haste  is  not  a  gift  of  the  gods,  and  you 
have  been  impatient,  with  the  usual  result.  I  was  almost  pre- 
pared for  this,  and  thus  am  not  wholly  disappointed.  In  a  day 
or  two  more  you  will  discover  your  mistake,  which,  so  far  as  I 
can  learn,  has  done  no  particular  harm.  If  you  wish  to  find  me, 
there  is  only  one  way  to  seek  me;  should  I  tell  you  what  it  is, 
I  should  run  the  risk  of  losing  you,  — that  is,  I  should  preclude 
the  manifestation  of  a  certain  quality  which  I  hope  to  find  in  the 
man  who  may  —  or,  rather,  must  —  be  my  friend.  This  sounds 
enigmatical,  yet  you  have  read  enough  of  my  nature,  as  written 
in  those  random  notes  in  my  sketch-book,  to  guess,  at  least, 
how  much  I  require.  Only  this  let  me  add :  mere  guessing  is 
useless. 

"  Being  unknown,  I  can  write  freely.  If  you  find  me,  I  shall 
be  justified  ;  if  not,  I  shall  hardly  need  to  blush,  even  to  myself, 
over  a  futile  experiment. 

"  It  is  possible  for  me  to  learn  enough  of  your  life,  hence- 
forth, to  direct  my  relation  towards  you.  This  may  be  the  end ; 
if  so,  I  shall  know  it  soon.  I  shall  also  know  whether  you 
continue  to  seek  me.  Trusting  in  your  honor  as  a  man,  I  must 
ask  you  to  trust  in  mine,  as  a  woman." 

I  did  discover  my  mistake,  as  the  Unknown  promised. 
There  had  been  a  secret  betrothal  between  Fisher  and 
Miss  Danvers ;  and  singularly  enough,  the  momentous 
question  and  answer  had  been  given  in  the  very  ravine 
leading  to  my  upper  dell !  The  two  meant  to  keep  the 
matter  to  themselves,  but  therein,  it  seems,  I  thwarted 
them ;  there  was  a  little  opposition  on  the  part  of  their 
respective  families,  but  all  was  amicably  settled  before  I 
left  Wampsocket. 

The  letter  made  a  very  deep  impression  upon  me.  What 
was  the  one  way  to  find  her?  What  could  it  be  but  the 
triumph  that  follows  ambitious  toil,  —  the  manifestation  of 
all  my  best  qualities,  as  a  man?  Be  she  old  or  young, 
plain  or  beautiful,  I  reflected,  hers  is  surely  a  nature 
worth  knowing,  and  its  candid  intelligence  conceals  no 
hazards  for  me.  I  have  sought  her  rashly,  blundered, 
betrayed  that  I  set  her  lower,  in  my  thoughts,  than  her 
actual  self:  let  me  now  adopt  the  opposite  course,  seek 


BAYARD    TAYLOR  281 

her  openly  no  longer,  go  back  to  my  tasks,  and,  following 
my  own  aims  vigorously  and  cheerfully,  restore  that  respect 
which  she  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  losing.  For,  con- 
sciously or  not,  she  had  communicated  to  me  a  doubt, 
implied  in  the  very  expression  of  her  own  strength  and 
pride.  She  had  meant  to  address  me  as  an  equal,  yet, 
despite  herself,  took  a  stand  a  little  above  that  which  she 
accorded  to  me. 

I  came  back  to  New  York  earlier  than  usual,  worked 
steadily  at  my  profession  and  with  increasing  success,  and 
began  to  accept  opportunities  (which  I  had  previously 
declined)  of  making  myself  personally  known  to  the  great, 
impressible,  fickle,  tyrannical  public.  One  or  two  of  my 
speeches  in  the  hall  of  the  Cooper  Institute,  on  various 
occasions  —  as  you  may  perhaps  remember  —  gave  me  a 
good  headway  with  the  party,  and  were  the  chief  cause  of 
my  nomination  for  the  State  office  which  I  still  hold. 
(There,  on  the  table,  lies  a  resignation,  written  to-day,  but 
not  yet  signed.  We  '11  talk  of  it,  afterwards.)  Several 
months  passed  by,  and  no  further  letter  reached  me.  I 
gave  up  much  of  my  time  to  society,  moved  familiarly  in 
more  than  one  province  of  the  kingdom  here,  and  vastly 
extended  my  acquaintance,  especially  among  the  women ; 
but  not  one  of  them  betrayed  the  mysterious  something 
or  other  —  really  I  can't  explain  precisely  what  it  was  !  — 
which  I  was  looking  for.  In  fact,  the  more  I  endeavored 
quietly  to  study  the  sex,  the  more  confused  I  became. 

At  last,  I  was  subjected  to  the  usual  onslaught  from  the 
strong-minded.  A  small  but  formidable  committee  entered 
my  office  one  morning  and  demanded  a  categorical  declara- 
tion of  my  principles.  What  my  views  on  the  subject  were, 
I  knew  very  well ;  they  were  clear  and  decided  ;  and  yet, 
I  hesitated  to  declare  them  !  It  was  n't  a  temptation  of 
Saint  Anthony  —  that  is,  turned  the  other  way  —  and  the 
belligerent  attitude  of  the  dames  did  not  alarm  me  in  the 
least;  but  she!  What  was  her  position?  How  could  I 
best  please  her?  It  flashed  upon  my  mind,  while  Mrs. 


282     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

was  making  her  formal  speech,  that  I  had  taken  no  step 
for  months  without  a  vague,  secret  reference  to  her.  So, 
I  strove  to  be  courteous,  friendly,  and  agreeably  noncom- 
mittal; begged  for  further  documents,  and  promised  to 
reply  by  letter,  in  a  few  days. 

I  was  hardly  surprised  to  find  the  well-known  hand 
on  the  envelope  of  a  letter,  shortly  afterwards.  I  held  it 
for  a  minute  in  my  palm,  with  an  absurd  hope  that  I  might 
sympathetically  feel  its  character,  before  breaking  the  seal. 
Then  I  read  it  with  a  great  sense  of  relief. 

"  I  have  never  assumed  to  guide  a  man,  except  towards  the 
full  exercise  of  his  powers.  It  is  not  opinion  in  action,  but 
opinion  in  a  state  of  idleness  or  indifference,  which  repels  me. 
I  am  deeply  glad  that  you  have  gained  so  much  since  you  left 
the  country.  If,  in  shaping  your  course,  you  have  thought  of 
me,  I  will  frankly  say  that,  to  that  extent,  you  have  drawn 
nearer.  Am  I  mistaken  in  conjecturing  that  you  wish  to  know 
my  relation  to  the  movement  concerning  which  you  were 
recently  interrogated?  In  this,  as  in  other  instances  which 
may  come,  I  must  beg  you  to  consider  me  only  as  a  spectator. 
The  more  my  own  views  may  seem  likely  to  sway  your  action, 
the  less  I  shall  be  inclined  to  declare  them.  If  you  find  this 
cold  or  unwomanly,  remember  that  it  is  not  easy !  " 

Yes  !  I  felt  that  I  had  certainly  drawn  much  nearer  to 
her.  And  from  this  time  on,  her  imaginary  face  and  form 
became  other  than  they  were.  She  was  twenty-eight  — 
three  years  older;  a  very  little  above  the  middle  height, 
but  not  tall ;  serene,  rather  than  stately,  in  her  movements ; 
with  a  calm,  almost  grave  face,  relieved  by  the  sweetness 
of  the  full,  firm  lips ;  and  finally  eyes  of  pure,  limpid  gray, 
such  as  we  fancy  belonged  to  the  Venus  of  Milo.  I  found 
her,  thus,  much  more  attractive  than  with  the  dark  eyes 
and  lashes,  —  but  she  did  not  make  her  appearance  in  the 
circles  which  I  frequented. 

Another  year  slipped  away.  As  an  official  personage, 
my  importance  increased,  but  I  was  careful  not  to  exag- 
gerate it  to  myself.  Many  have  wondered  (perhaps  you 


BAYARD    TAYLOR  283 

among  the  rest)  at  my  success,  seeing  that  I  possess  no 
remarkable  abilities.  If  I  have  any  secret,  it  is  simply  this 
—  doing  faithfully,  with  all  my  might,  whatever  I  under- 
take. Nine  tenths  of  our  politicians  become  inflated  and 
careless,  after  the  first  few  years,  and  are  easily  forgotten 
when  they  once  lose  place.  I  am  a  little  surprised,  now, 
that  I  had  so  much  patience  with  the  Unknown.  I  was 
too  important,  at  least,  to  be  played  with ;  too  mature  to  be 
subjected  to  a  longer  test;  too  earnest,  as  I  had  proved, 
to  be  doubted,  or  thrown  aside  without  a  further  explanation. 

Growing  tired,  at  last,  of  silent  waiting,  I  bethought  me 
of  advertising.  A  carefully-written  "  Personal,"  in  which 
Ignotus  informed  Ignota  of  the  necessity  of  his  communi- 
cating with  her,  appeared  simultaneously  in  the  Tribune, 
Herald,  World,  and  Times.  I  renewed  the  advertisement 
as  the  time  expired  without  an  answer,  and  I  think  it 
was  about  the  end  of  the  third  week  before  one  came, 
through  the  post,  as  before. 

Ah,  yes !  I  had  forgotten.  See !  my  advertisement  is 
pasted  on  the  note,  as  a  heading  or  motto  for  the  manu- 
script lines.  I  don't  know  why  the  printed  slip  should 
give  me  a  particular  feeling  of  humiliation  as  I  look  at  it, 
but  such  is  the  fact.  What  she  wrote  is  all  I  need  read  to 
you :  — 

"  I  could  not,  at  first,  be  certain  that  this  was  meant  for  me. 
If  I  were  to  explain  to  you  why  I  have  not  written  for  so  long 
a  time,  I  might  give  you  one  of  the  few  clews  which  I  insist  on 
keeping  in  my  own  hands.  In  your  public  capacity,  you  have 
been  (so  far  as  a  woman  may  judge)  upright,  independent, 
wholly  manly :  in  your  relations  with  other  men  I  learn  nothing 
of  you  that  is  not  honorable :  towards  women  you  are  kind, 
chivalrous,  no  doubt,  overflowing  with  the  usual  social  refine- 
ments, but —  Here,  again,  I  run  hard  upon  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  silence.  The  way  to  me,  if  you  care  to  traverse  it,  is  so 
simple,  so  very  simple  !  Yet,  after  what  I  have  written,  I  can- 
not even  wave  my  hand  in  the  direction  of  it,  without  certain 
self-contempt.  When  I  feel  free  to  tell  you,  we  shall  draw  apart 
and  remain  unknown  forever. 


284     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

"You  desire  to  write  ?  I  do  not  prohibit  it.  I  have  hereto- 
fore made  no  arrangement  for  hearing  from  you,  in  turn,  because 
I  could  not  discover  that  any  advantage  would  accrue  from  it. 
But  it  seems  only  fair,  I  confess,  and  you  dare  not  think  me 
capricious.  So,  three  days  hence,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
a  trusty  messenger  of  mine  will  call  at  your  door.  If  you  have 
anything  to  give  her  for  me,  the  act  of  giving  it  must  be  the 
sign  of  a  compact  on  your  part,  that  you  will  allow  her  to  leave 
immediately,  unquestioned  and  unfollowed." 

You  look  puzzled,  I  see :  you  don't  catch  the  real  drift 
of  her  words?  Well,  —  that's  a  melancholy  encourage- 
ment. Neither  did  I,  at  the  time :  it  was  plain  that  I 
had  disappointed  her  in  some  way,  and  my  intercourse 
with,  or  manner  towards,  women,  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  In  vain  I  ran  over  as  much  of  my  later  social  life 
as  I  could  recall.  There  had  been  no  special  attention, 
nothing  to  mislead  a  susceptible  heart ;  on  the  other  side, 
certainly  no  rudeness,  no  want  of  "  chivalrous  "  (she  used 
the  word  !)  respect  and  attention.  What,  in  the  name  of 
all  the  gods,  was  the  matter? 

In  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  grow  clearer,  I  was  obliged  to 
write  my  letter  in  a  rather  muddled  state  of  mind.  I  had 
so  much  to  say !  sixteen  folio  pages,  I  was  sure,  would  only 
suffice  for  an  introduction  to  the  case;  yet,  when  the 
creamy  vellum  lay  before  me  and  the  moist  pen  drew  my 
fingers  towards  it,  I  sat  stock  dumb  for  half  an  hour.  I 
wrote,  finally,  in  a  half-desperate  mood,  without  regard  to 
coherency  or  logic.  Here  's  a  rough  draft  of  a  part  of  the 
letter,  and  a  single  passage  from  it  will  be  enough  :  — 

"  I  can  conceive  of  no  simpler  way  to  you  than  the  knowl- 
edge of  your  name  and  address.  I  have  drawn  airy  images  of 
you,  but  they  do  not  become  incarnate,  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  should  recognize  you  in  the  brief  moment  of  passing.  Your 
nature  is  not  of  those  which  are  instantly  legible.  As  an 
abstract  power,  it  has  wrought  in  my  life  and  it  continually 
moves  my  heart  with  desires  which  are  unsatisfactory  because 
so  vague  and  ignorant.  Let  me  offer  you,  personally,  my  grati- 
tude, my  earnest  friendship  :  you  would  laugh  if  I  were  now  to 
offer  more." 


BAYARD   TAYLOR  285 

Stay  !  here  is  another  fragment,  more  reckless  in  tone  :  — 

"  I  want  to  find  the  woman  whom  I  can  love  —  who  can  love 
me.  But  this  is  a  masquerade  where  the  features  are  hidden, 
the  voice  disguised,  even  the  hands  grotesquely  gloved.  Come  ! 
I  will  venture  more  than  I  ever  thought  was  possible  to  me. 
You  shall  know  my  deepest  nature  as  I  myself  seem  to  know  it. 
Then,  give  me  the  commonest  chance  of  learning  yours,  through 
an  intercourse  which  shall  leave  both  free,  should  we  not  feel 
the  closing  of  the  inevitable  bond !  " 

After  I  had  written  that,  the  pages  filled  rapidly.  When 
the  appointed  hour  arrived,  a  bulky  epistle,  in  a  strong 
linen  envelope,  sealed  with  five  wax  seals,  was  waiting  on 
my  table.  Precisely  at  six  there  was  an  announcement : 
the  door  opened,  and  a  little  outside,  in  the  shadow,  I  saw 
an  old  woman,  in  a  threadbare  dress  of  rusty  black. 

"  Come  in  !  "  I  said. 

"The  letter!"  answered  a  husky  voice.  She  stretched 
out  a  bony  hand,  without  moving  a  step. 

"  It  is  for  a  lady  —  very  important  business,"  said  I,  tak- 
ing up  the  letter ;  "  are  you  sure  that  there  is  no  mistake  ?  " 

She  drew  her  hand  under  the  shawl,  turned  without  a 
word,  and  moved  towards  the  hall  door. 

"  Stop  !  "  I  cried  :  "  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  !  Take 
it  —  take  it !  You  are  the  right  messenger  !  " 

She  clutched  it,  and  was  instantly  gone. 

Several  days  passed,  and  I  gradually  became  so  nervous 
and  uneasy  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  inserting  another 
"Personal"  in  the  daily  papers,  when  the  answer  arrived. 
It  was  brief  and  mysterious ;  you  shall  hear  the  whole  of  it. 

"  I  thank  you.  Your  letter  is  a  sacred  confidence  which 
I  pray  you  never  to  regret.  You  nature  is  sound  and  good. 
You  ask  no  more  than  is  reasonable,  and  I  have  no  real  right 
to  refuse.  In  the  one  respect  which  I  have  hinted,  /  may  have 
been  unskillful  or  too  narrowly  cautious :  I  must  have  the  cer- 
tainty of  this.  Therefore,  as  a  generous  favor,  give  me  six 
months  more!  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  will  write  to  you 


286     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

again.     Have  patience  with  these  brief  lines :  another  word 
might  be  a  word  too  much." 

You  notice  the  change  in  her  tone  ?  The  letter  gave  me 
the  strongest  impression  of  a  new,  warm,  almost  anxious 
interest  on  her  part.  My  fancies,  as  first  at  Wampsocket, 
began  to  play  all  sorts  of  singular  pranks :  sometimes  she 
was  rich  and  of  an  old  family,  sometimes  moderately  poor 
and  obscure,  but  always  the  same  calm,  reposeful  face  and 
clear  gray  eyes.  I  ceased  looking  for  her  in  society,  quite 
sure  that  I  should  not  find  her,  and  nursed  a  wild  expecta- 
tion of  suddenly  meeting  her,  face  to  face,  in  the  most 
unlikely  places  and  under  startling  circumstances.  How- 
ever, the  end  of  it  all  was  patience,  —  patience  for  six 
months. 

There 's  not  much  more  to  tell ;  but  this  last  letter  is 
hard  for  me  to  read.  It  came  punctually,  to  a  day.  I 
knew  it  would,  and  at  the  last  I  began  to  dread  the  time, 
as  if  a  heavy  note  were  falling  due,  and  I  had  no  funds  to 
meet  it.  My  head  was  in  a  whirl  when  I  broke  the  seal. 
The  fact  in  it  stared  at  me  blankly,  at  once,  but  it  was 
a  long  time  before  the  words  and  sentences  became 
intelligible. 

"  The  stipulated  time  has  come,  and  our  hidden  romance  is  at 
an  end.  Had  I  taken  this  resolution  a  year  ago,  it  would  have 
saved  me  many  vain  hopes,  and  you,  perhaps,  a  little  uncer- 
tainty. Forgive  me,  first,  if  you  can,  and  then  hear  the 
explanation ! 

"  You  wished  for  a  personal  interview :  you  have  had,  not 
one,  but  many.  We  have  met,  in  society,  talked  face  to  face, 
discussed  the  weather,  the  opera,  toilettes,  Queechy,  Aurora 
Floyd,  Long  Branch  and  Newport,  and  exchanged  a  weary 
amount  of  fashionable  gossip ;  and  you  never  guessed  that  I 
was  governed  by  any  deeper  interest !  I  have  purposely  uttered 
ridiculous  platitudes,  and  you  were  as  smilingly  courteous  as  if 
you  enjoyed  them :  I  have  let  fall  remarks  whose  hollowness  and 
selfishness  could  not  have  escaped  you,  and  have  waited  in  vain 
for  a  word  of  sharp,  honest,  manly  reproof.  Your  manner  to 
me  was  unexceptionable,  as  it  was  to  all  other  women:  but 


BAYARD   TAYLOR  287 

there  lies  the  source  of  my  disappointment,  of  —  yes,  —  of  my 
sorrow ! 

"You  appreciate,  I  cannot  doubt,  the  qualities  in  woman 
which  men  value  in  one  another, — culture,  independence  of 
thought,  a  high  and  earnest  apprehension  of  life;  but  you 
know  not  how  to  seek  them.  It  is  not  true  that  a  mature  and 
unperverted  woman  is  flattered  by  receiving  only  the  general 
obsequiousness  which  most  men  give  to  the  whole  sex.  In  the 
man  who  contradicts  and  strives  with  her,  she  discovers  a  truer 
interest,  a  nobler  respect.  The  empty-headed,  spindle-shanked 
youths  who  dance  admirably,  understand  something  of  billiards, 
much  less  of  horses,  and  still  less  of  navigation,  soon  grow  inex- 
pressibly wearisome  to  us ;  but  the  men  who  adopt  their  social 
courtesy,  never  seeking  to  arouse,  uplift,  instruct  us,  are  a  bitter 
disappointment. 

"  What  would  have  been  the  end,  had  you  really  found  me? 
Certainly  a  sincere,  satisfying  friendship.  No  mysterious  mag- 
netic force  has  drawn  you  to  me  or  held  you  near  me,  nor  has 
my  experiment  inspired  me  with  an  interest  which  cannot  be 
given  up  without  a  personal  pang.  I  am  grieved,  for  the  sake 
of  all  men  and  all  women.  Yet,  understand  me !  I  mean  no 
slightest  reproach.  I  esteem  and  honor  you  for  what  you  are. 
Farewell!" 

There  !  Nothing  could  be  kinder  in  tone,  nothing  more 
humiliating  in  substance.  I  was  sore  and  offended  for  a 
few  days;  but  I  soon  began  to  see,  and  ever  more  and 
more  clearly,  that  she  was  wholly  right.  I  was  sure,  also, 
that  any  further  attempt  to  correspond  with  her  would  be 
vain.  It  all  comes  of  taking  society  just  as  we  find  it,  and 
supposing  that  conventional  courtesy  is  the  only  safe  ground 
on  which  men  and  women  can  meet. 

The  fact  is  —  there 's  no  use  in  hiding  it  from  myself 
(and  I  see,  by  your  face,  that  the  letter  cuts  into  your  own 
conscience)  —  she  is  a  free,  courageous,  independent  char- 
acter, and  —  I  am  not. 

But  who  was  she? 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER 

1855-1896 

FROM  early  manhood  until  his  death  H.  C.  Bunner  was  the 
editor  of  "  Puck."  Those  who  appreciated  the  flavor  of  Airs 
from  Arcady  and  Rowen,  and  who  knew  of  "  Puck  "  only  that 
it  was  our  most  popular  comic  weekly,  felt  here  an  incongruity. 
If  they  had  followed  the  editorial  page,  they  would  have  found 
dignity  no  less  than  pungency,  and  might  have  comprehended 
the  man  as  more  than  a  maker  of  delicate  verses  and  more  than 
a  humorist.  In  the  ordinary  sense  he  was  hardly  a  humorist. 
Humor  was  large  in  him,  but  all  suffused  with  fancy.  Loving 
New  York  as  Charles  Lamb  loved  London,  he  was  even  more 
like  Lamb  in  that  his  quip  habitually  carried  a  sentiment  spring- 
ing from  human  sympathy.  This  ultimate  quality  reconciled 
the  others  of  a  singularly  original  composition. 

His  fiction  shows  all  these  traits,  and  also  a  nice  sense  of 
form.  He  was  a  student  of  Boccaccio ;  he  experimented  with 
various  adaptations,  as  in  The  Third  Figure  of  the  Cotillion 
with  the  method  of  Irving ;  and,  though  his  preference  was  for 
freer  and  more  spontaneous  structure,  he  was  keenly  aware,  as 
in  the  story  below,  of  the  value  of  the  unities. 


THE   LOVE-LETTERS   OF   SMITH 

[From  "  Short  Sixes,"  copyright,  1890,  by  Keppler  and  Schwarz- 
mann  ;  reprinted  here  by  their  special  permission} 

WHEN  the  little  seamstress  had  climbed  to  her  room 
in  the  story  over  the  top  story  of  the  great  brick 
tenement  house  in  which  she  lived,  she  was  quite  tired  out. 
If  you  do  not  understand  what  a  story  over  a  top  story  is, 
you  must  remember  that  there  are  no  limits  to  human  greed, 
and  hardly  any  to  the  height  of  tenement  houses.  When 
the  man  who  owned  that  seven-story  tenement  found  that 
he  could  rent  another  floor,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  per- 
suading the  guardians  of  our  building  laws  to  let  him  clap 
another  story  on  the  roof,  like  a  cabin  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  ; 
and  in  the  southeasterly  of  the  four  apartments  on  this  floor 
the  little  seamstress  lived.  You  could  just  see  the  top  of 
her  window  from  the  street  —  the  huge  cornice  that  had 
capped  the  original  front,  and  that  served  as  her  window- 
sill  now,  quite  hid  all  the  lower  part  of  the  story  on  top  of 
the  top-story. 

The  little  seamstress  was  scarcely  thirty  years  old,  but  she 
was  such  an  old-fashioned  little  body  in  so  many  of  her 
looks  and  ways  that  I  had  almost  spelled  her  sempstress, 
after  the  fashion  of  our  grandmothers.  She  had  been  a 
comely  body,  too;  and  would  have  been  still,  if  she  had 
not  been  thin  and  pale  and  anxious-eyed. 

She  was  tired  out  to-night  because  she  had  been  working 
hard  all  day  for  a  lady  who  lived  far  up  in  the  "  New  Wards  " 
beyond  Harlem  River,  and  after  the  long  journey  home,  she 
had  to  climb  seven  flights  of  tenement-house  stairs.  She 
was  too  tired,  both  in  body  and  in  mind,  to  cook  the  two 
291 


292     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

little  chops  she  had  brought  home.  She  would  save  them 
for  breakfast,  she  thought.  So  she  made  herself  a  cup  of 
tea  on  the  miniature  stove,  and  ate  a  slice  of  dry  bread  with 
it.  It  was  too  much  trouble  to  make  toast. 

But  after  dinner  she  watered  her  flowers.  She  was  never 
too  tired  for  that :  and  the  six  pots  of  geraniums  that  caught 
the  south  sun  on  the  top  of  the  cornice  did  their  best  to 
repay  her.  Then  she  sat  down  in  her  rocking-chair  by  the 
window  and  looked  out.  Her  eyry  was  high  above  all  the 
other  buildings,  and  she  could  look  across  some  low  roofs 
opposite,  and  see  the  further  end  of  Tompkins  Square,  with 
its  sparse  Spring  green  showing  faintly  through  the  dusk. 
The  eternal  roar  of  the  city  floated  up  to  her  and  vaguely 
troubled  her.  She  was  a  country  girl,  and  although  she  had 
lived  for  ten  years  in  New  York,  she  had  never  grown  used 
to  that  ceaseless  murmur.  To-night  she  felt  the  languor  of 
the  new  season  as  well  as  the  heaviness  of  physical  exhaus- 
tion. She  was  almost  too  tired  to  go  to  bed. 

She  thought  of  the  hard  day  done  and  the  hard  day  to  be 
begun  after  the  night  spent  on  the  hard  little  bed.  She 
thought  of  the  peaceful  days  in  the  country,  when  she 
taught  school  in  the  Massachusetts  village  where  she  was 
born.  She  thought  of  a  hundred  small  slights  that  she  had 
to  bear  from  people  better  fed  than  bred.  She  thought  of 
the  sweet  green  fields  that  she  rarely  saw  nowadays.  She 
thought  of  the  long  journey  forth  and  back  that  must  begin 
and  end  her  morrow's  work,  and  she  wondered  if  her  em- 
ployer would  think  to  offer  to  pay  her  fare.  Then  she  pulled 
herself  together.  She  must  think  of  more  agreeable  things, 
or  she  could  not  sleep.  And  as  the  only  agreeable  things 
she  had  to  think  about  were  her  flowers,  she  looked  at  the 
garden  on  top  of  the  cornice. 

A  peculiar  gritting  noise  made  her  look  down,  and  she  saw 
a  cylindrical  object  that  glittered  in  the  twilight,  advancing 
in  an  irregular  and  uncertain  manner  toward  her  flower-pots. 
Looking  closer,  she  saw  that  it  was  a  pewter  beer-mug,  which 
somebody  in  the  next  apartment  was  pushing  with  a  two- 


HENRY   CUYLER   RUNNER     293 

foot  rule.  On  top  of  the  beer-mug  was  a  piece  of  paper, 
and  on  this  paper  was  written,  in  a  sprawling,  half-formed 
hand : 

porter 

pleas  excuse  the  libberty  And 

drink  it 

The  seamstress  started  up  in  terror,  and  shut  the  window. 
She  remembered  that  there  was  a  man  in  the  next  apart- 
ment. She  had  seen  him  on  the  stairs,  on  Sundays.  He 
seemed  a  grave,  decent  person ;  but  —  he  must  be  drunk. 
She  sat  down  on  her  bed,  all  a-tremble.  Then  she  reasoned 
with  herself.  The  man  was  drunk,  that  was  all.  He  prob- 
ably would  not  annoy  her  further.  And  if  he  did,  she  had 
only  to  retreat  to  Mrs.  Mulvaney's  apartment  in  the  rear, 
and  Mr.  Mulvaney,  who  was  a  highly  respectable  man  and 
worked  in  a  boiler-shop,  would  protect  her.  So,  being  a 
poor  woman  who  had  already  had  occasion  to  excuse  —  and 
refuse  —  two  or  three  "  libberties  "  of  like  sort,  she  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  to  bed  like  a  reasonable  seamstress,  and 
she  did.  She  was  rewarded,  for  when  her  light  was  out,  she 
could  see  in  the  moonlight  that  the  two-foot  rule  appeared 
again,  with  one  joint  bent  back,  hitched  itself  into  the  mug- 
handle,  and  withdrew  the  mug. 

The  next  day  was  a  hard  one  for  the  little  seamstress,  and 
she  hardly  thought  of  the  affair  of  the  night  before  until  the 
same  hour  had  come  around  again,  and  she  sat  once  more 
by  her  window.  Then  she  smiled  at  the  remembrance. 
"  Poor  fellow,"  she  said  in  her  charitable  heart,  "  I  've  no 
doubt  he 's  awfully  ashamed  of  it  now.  Perhaps  he  was 
never  tipsy  before.  Perhaps  he  did  n't  know  there  was  a 
lone  woman  in  here  to  be  frightened." 

Just  then  she  heard  a  gritting  sound.  She  looked  down. 
The  pewter  pot  was  in  front  of  her,  and  the  two-foot  rule 
was  slowly  retiring.  On  the  pot  was  a  piece  of  paper,  and 
on  the  paper  was  : 

porter 

good  for  the  helth 

it  makes  meet 


294     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

This  time  the  little  seamstress  shut  her  window  with  a 
bang  of  indignation.  The  color  rose  to  her  pale  cheeks. 
She  thought  that  she  would  go  down  to  see  the  janitor  at 
once.  Then  she  remembered  the  seven  flights  of  stairs; 
and  she  resolved  to  see  the  janitor  in  the  morning.  Then 
she  went  to  bed  and  saw  the  mug  drawn  back  just  as  it  had 
been  drawn  back  the  night  before. 

The  morning  came,  but,  somehow,  the  seamstress  did 
not  care  to  complain  to  the  janitor.  She  hated  to  make 
trouble  —  and  the  janitor  might  think  —  and  —  and  —  well, 
if  the  wretch  did  it  again  she  would  speak  to  him  herself, 
and  that  would  settle  it. 

And  so,  on  the  next  night,  which  was  a  Thursday,  the 
little  seamstress  sat  down  by  her  window,  resolved  to  settle 
the  matter.  And  she  had  not  sat  there  long,  rocking  in  the 
creaking  little  rocking-chair  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  her  old  home,  when  the  pewter  pot  hove  in  sight,  with 
a  piece  of  paper  on  the  top. 

This  time  the  legend  read  : 

Perhaps  you  are  afrade  i  will 

adress  you 

i  am  not  that  kind 

The  seamstress  did  not  quite  know  whether  to  kugh  or 
to  cry.  But  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  speech. 
She  leaned  out  of  her  window  and  addressed  the  twilight 
heaven. 

"  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  sir  —  I  —  will  you  please  put  your  head 
out  of  the  window  so  that  I  can  speak  to  you?" 

The  silence  of  the  other  room  was  undisturbed.  The 
seamstress  drew  back,  blushing.  But  before  she  could  nerve 
herself  for  another  attack,  a  piece  of  paper  appeared  on  the 
end  of  the  two-foot  rule. 

when  i  Say  a  thing  i 
mene  it 

i  have  Sed  i  would  not 
Adress  you  and  i 
Will  not 


HENRY   CUYLER   BUNNER     295 

What  was  the  little  seamstress  to  do  ?  She  stood  by  the 
window  and  thought  hard  about  it.  Should  she  complain 
to  the  janitor?  But  the  creature  was  perfectly  respectful. 
No  doubt  he  meant  to  be  kind.  He  certainly  was  kind,  to 
waste  these  pots  of  porter  on  her.  She  remembered  the  last 
time  —  and  the  first  —  that  she  had  drunk  porter.  It  was 
at  home,  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  after  she  had  had  the 
diphtheria.  She  remembered  how  good  it  was,  and  how  it 
had  given  her  back  her  strength.  And  without  one  thought 
of  what  she  was  doing,  she  lifted  the  pot  of  porter  and  took 
one  little  reminiscent  sip  —  two  little  reminiscent  sips  — 
and  became  aware  of  her  utter  fall  and  defeat.  She  blushed 
now  as  she  had  never  blushed  before,  put  the  pot  down, 
closed  the  window,  and  fled  to  her  bed  like  a  deer  to  the 
woods. 

And  when  the  porter  arrived  the  next  night,  bearing  the 
simple  appeal : 

Dont  be  afrade  of  it 
drink  it  all 

the  little  seamstress  arose  and  grasped  the  pot  firmly  by  the 
handle,  and  poured  its  contents  over  the  earth  around  her 
largest  geranium.  She  poured  the  contents  out  to  the  last 
drop,  and  then  she  dropped  the  pot,  and  ran  back  and  sat 
on  her  bed  and  cried,  with  her  face  hid  in  her  hands. 

"Now,"  she  said  to  herself,  "you've  done  it!  And 
you  're  just  as  nasty  and  hard-hearted  and  suspicious  and 
mean  as  —  as  pusley  !  " 

And  she  wept  to  think  of  her  hardness  of  heart.  "  He 
will  never  give  me  a  chance  to  say  I  am  sorry,"  she  thought. 
And,  really,  she  might  have  spoken  kindly  to  the  poor  man, 
and  told  him  that  she  was  much  obliged  to  him,  but  that 
he  really  must  n't  ask  her  to  drink  porter  with  him. 

"But  it 's  all  over  and  done  now,"  she  said  to  herself  as 
she  sat  at  her  window  on  Saturday  night.  And  then  she 
looked  at  the  cornice,  and  saw  the  faithful  little  pewter  pot 
traveling  slowly  toward  her. 


296     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

She  was  conquered.  This  act  of  Christian  forbearance 
was  too  much  for  her  kindly  spirit.  She  read  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  paper : 

porter  is  good  for  Flours 
but  better  for  Pokes 

and  she  lifted  the  pot  to  her  lips,  which  were  not  half 
so  red  as  her  cheeks,  and  took  a  good,  hearty,  grateful 
draught. 

She  sipped  in  thoughtful  silence  after  this  first  plunge, 
and  presently  she  was  surprised  to  find  the  bottom  of  the 
pot  in  full  view. 

On  the  table  at  her  side  a  few  pearl  buttons  were  screwed 
up  in  a  bit  of  white  paper.  She  untwisted  the  paper  and 
smoothed  it  out,  and  wrote  in  a  tremulous  hand  —  she 
could  write  a  very  neat  hand  — 

Thanks. 

This  she  laid  on  the  top  of  the  pot,  and  in  a  moment 
the  bent  two-foot  rule  appeared  and  drew  the  mail-carriage 
home.  Then  she  sat  still,  enjoying  the  warm  glow  of  the 
porter,  which  seemed  to  have  permeated  her  entire  being 
with  a  heat  that  was  not  at  all  like  the  unpleasant  and  op- 
pressive heat  of  the  atmosphere,  an  atmosphere  heavy  with 
the  Spring  damp.  A  gritting  on  the  tin  aroused  her.  A 
piece  of  paper  lay  under  her  eyes. 

fine  groing  weather 

...      .,  Smith 

it  said. 

Now  it  is  unlikely  that  in  the  whole  round  and  range  of 
conversational  commonplaces  there  was  one  other  greeting 
that  could  have  induced  the  seamstress  to  continue  the  ex- 
change of  communications.  But  this  simple  and  homely 
phrase  touched  her  country  heart.  What  did  "groing 
weather"  matter  to  the  toilers  in  this  waste  of  brick  and 
mortar?  This  stranger  must  be,  like  herself,  a  country- bred 
soul,  longing  for  the  new  green  and  the  upturned  brown 


HENRY   CUYLER   BUNNER     297 

mould  of  the  country  fields.     She  took  up  the  paper,  and 
wrote  under  the  first  message  : 

Fine 

But  that  seemed  curt ;  for  she  added  :  "for"  what  ?  She 
did  not  know.  At  last  in  desperation  she  put  down  potatos. 
The  piece  of  paper  was  withdrawn  and  came  back  with  an 
addition : 

Too  mist  for  potatos. 

And  when  the  little  seamstress  had  read  this,  and  grasped 
the  fact  that  m-i-s-t  represented  the  writer's  pronunciation 
of  "  moist,"  she  laughed  softly  to  herself.  A  man  whose 
mind,  at  such  a  time,  was  seriously  bent  upon  potatos,  was 
not  a  man  to  be  feared.  She  found  a  half-sheet  of  note- 
paper,  and  wrote  : 

/  lived  in  a  small  village  before  I  came  to  New  York, 
but  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  know  much  about  farming.  Are 
you  a  farmer  f 

The  answer  came : 

have  ben  most  Every  thing 
farmed  a  Spel  in  Maine 

Smith 

As  she  read  this,  the  seamstress  heard  a  church  clock 
strike  nine. 

"  Bless  me,  is  it  so  late  ?  "  she  cried,  and  she  hurriedly 
penciled  Good  Night,  thrust  the  paper  out,  and  closed  the 
window.  But  a  few  minutes  later,  passing  by,  she  saw  yet 
another  bit  of  paper  on  the  cornice,  fluttering  in  the  evening 
breeze.  It  said  only  good  nite,  and  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, the  little  seamstress  took  it  in  and  gave  it  shelter. 

After  this,  they  were  the  best  of  friends.  Every  evening 
the  pot  appeared,  and  while  the  seamstress  drank  from  it  at 
her  window,  Mr.  Smith  drank  from  its  twin  at  his  ;  and  notes 
were  exchanged  as  rapidly  as  Mr.  Smith's  early  education 


298     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

permitted.  They  told  each  other  their  histories,  and  Mr. 
Smith's  was  one  of  travel  and  variety,  which  he  seemed  to 
consider  quite  a  matter  of  course.  He  had  followed  the 
sea,  he  had  farmed,  he  had  been  a  logger  and  a  hunter  in 
the  Maine  woods.  Now  he  was  foreman  of  an  East  River 
lumber  yard,  and  he  was  prospering.  In  a  year  or  two  he 
would  have  enough  laid  by  to  go  home  to  Bucksport  and 
buy  a  share  in  a  ship-building  business.  All  this  dribbled 
out  in  the  course  of  a  jerky  but  variegated  correspondence, 
in  which  autobiographic  details  were  mixed  with  reflections, 
moral  and  philosophical. 

A  few  samples  will  give  an  idea  of  Mr.  Smith's  style : 

*  was  one  trip  to  van  demens 
land 

To  which  the  seamstress  replied  : 

//  must  have  been  -very  interesting. 

But  Mr.  Smith  disposed  of  this  subject  very  briefly : 
it  ivornt 

Further  he  vouchsafed  : 

i  seen  a  Chinese  cook  in 

hong  kong  could  cook  flap  jacks 

like  your  Mother 

a  mishnery  that  sells  Runt 
is  the  menest  of  Gods  crechers 

a  bulfite  is  not  -what  it  is 
cract  up  to  Be 

the  dagos  are  wussen  the 
brutes 

i  am  6  if 

but  my  Father  was  6  foot  4 

The  seamstress  had  taught  school  one  Winter,  and  she 
could  not  refrain  from  making  an  attempt  to  reform  Mr. 


HENRY   CUYLER   BUNNER      299 

Smith's    orthography.      One   evening,    in   answer   to   this 
communication : 

*  killd  a  Bare  in  Maine  600 
Ibs  waight 
she  wrote : 

Is  n't  it  generally  spelled  Bearf 

but  she  gave  up  the  attempt  when  he  responded : 

a  bare  is  a  mene  animle  any 
way  you  spel  him 

The  Spring  wore  on,  and  the  Summer  came,  and  still  the 
evening  drink  and  the  evening  correspondence  brightened  the 
close  of '-.each  day  for  the  little  seamstress.  And  the  draught 
of  porter  put  her  to  sleep  each  night,  giving  her  a  calmer 
rest  than  she  had  ever  known  during  her  stay  in  the  noisy 
city;  and  it  began,  moreover,  to  make  a  little  "meet"  for 
her.  And  then  the  thought  that  she  was  going  to  have  an 
hour  of  pleasant  companionship  somehow  gave  her  courage 
to  cook  and  eat  her  little  dinner,  however  tired  she  was. 
The  seamstress's  cheeks  began  to  blossom  with  the  June 
roses. 

And  all  this  time  Mr.  Smith  kept  his  vow  of  silence  un- 
broken, though  the  seamstress  sometimes  tempted  him  with 
little  ejaculations  and  exclamations  to  which  he  might  have 
responded.  He  was  silent  and  invisible.  Only  the  smoke 
of  his  pipe,  and  the  clink  of  his  mug  as  he  set  it  down  on 
the  cornice,  told  her  that  a  living,  material  Smith  was  her 
correspondent.  They  never  met  on  the  stairs,  for  their 
hours  of  coming  and  going  did  not  coincide.  Once  or 
twice  they  passed  each  other  in  the  street  —  but  Mr.  Smith 
looked  straight  ahead  of  him,  about  a  foot  over  her  head. 
The  little  seamstress  thought  he  was  a  very  fine-looking  man, 
with  his  six  feet  one  and  three-quarters  and  his  thick  brown 
beard.  Most  people  would  have  called  him  plain. 

Once  she  spoke  to  him.  She  was  coming  home  one 
Summer  evening,  and  a  gang  of  corner-loafers  stopped  her 
and  demanded  money  to  buy  beer,  as  is  their  custom. 


3oo     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

Before  she  had  time  to  be  frightened,  Mr.  Smith  appeared 
—  whence,  she  knew  not  —  scattered  the  gang  like  chaff, 
and,  collaring  two  of  the  human  hyenas,  kicked  them,  with 
deliberate,  ponderous,  alternate  kicks,  until  they  writhed  in 
ineffable  agony.  When  he  let  them  crawl  away,  she  turned 
to  him  and  thanked  him  warmly,  looking  very  pretty  now, 
with  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  But  Mr.  Smith  answered  no 
word.  He  stared  over  her  head,  grew  red  in  the  face, 
fidgeted  nervously,  but  held  his  peace  until  his  eyes  fell  on 
a  rotund  Teuton,  passing  by. 

"  Say,  Dutchy  !  "  he  roared. 

The  German  stood  aghast. 

"  I  ain't  got  nothing  to  write  with !  "  thundered  Mr. 
Smith,  looking  him  in  the  eye.  And  then  the  man  of  his 
word  passed  on  his  way. 

And  so  the  Summer  went  on,  and  the  two  correspondents 
chatted  silently  from  window  to  window,  hid  from  sight  of 
all  the  world  below  by  the  friendly  cornice.  And  they 
looked  out  over  the  roof,  and  saw  the  green  of  Tompkins 
Square  grow  darker  and  dustier  as  the  months  went  on. 

Mr.  Smith  was  given  to  Sunday  trips  into  the  suburbs, 
and  he  never  came  back  without  a  bunch  of  daisies  or 
black-eyed  Susans  or,  later,  asters  or  golden-rod  for  the 
little  seamstress.  Sometimes,  with  a  sagacity  rare  in  his  sex, 
he  brought  her  a  whole  plant,  with  fresh  loam  for  potting. 

He  gave  her  also  a  reel  in  a  bottle,  which,  he  wrote,  he 
had  "  maid"  himself,  and  some  coral,  and  a  dried  flying- 
fish,  that  was  somewhat  fearful  to  look  upon,  with  its  sword- 
like  fins  and  its  hollow  eyes.  At  first,  she  could  not  go  to 
sleep  with  that  flying-fish  hanging  on  the  wall. 

But  he  surprised  the  little  seamstress  very  much  one  cool 
September  evening,  when  he  shoved  this  letter  along  the 
cornice : 

Respected  and  Honored  Madam  * 

Having  long  and  vainly  sought  an  opportunity  to  convey 
to  you  the  expression  of  my  sentiments^  I  noiv  avail  myself  of 
the  privilege  of  epistolary  communication  to  acquaint  you  with 


HENRY   CUYLER    BUNNER     301 

the  fact  that  the  Emotions)  "which  you  have  raised  in  my  breast) 
are  those  which  should  point  to  Connubial  Love  and  Affection 
rather  than  to  simple  Friendship .  In  shorty  Madam)  I  have 
the  Honor  to  approach  you  with  a  Proposal)  the  acceptance  of 
-which  will  fill  me  with  ecstatic  Gratitude y  and  enable  me  to 
extend  to  you  those  Protecting  Cares)  which  the  Matrimonial 
Bond  makes  at  once  the  Duty  and  the  Privilege  of  hint)  who 
would)  at  no  distant  date)  lead  to  the  Hymeneal  Altar  one 
whose  charms  and  virtues  should  suffice  to  kindle  its  Flames) 
without  extraneous  Aid 

I  remain)  Dear  Madam) 

Your  Humble  Servant  and 
Ardent  Adorer)  /•  Smith 

The  little  seamstress  gazed  at  this  letter  a  long  time. 
Perhaps  she  was  wondering  in  what  Ready  Letter-Writer  of 
the  last  century  Mr.  Smith  had  found  his  form.  Perhaps 
she  was  amazed  at  the  results  of  his  first  attempt  at  punctu- 
ation. Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  something  else,  for  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  small  mouth. 

But  it  must  have  been  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Smith  must 
have  grown  nervous,  for  presently  another  communication 
came  along  the  line  where  the  top  of  the  cornice  was  worn 
smooth.  It  read : 

If  not  understood  will  you 
mary  me 

The  little  seamstress  seized  a  piece  of  paper  and  wrote : 
If  I  say  Yes,  will  you  speak  to  me  ? 

Then  she  rose  and  passed  it  out  to  him,  leaning  out  of 
the  window,  and  their  faces  met. 


HAROLD  FREDERIC 

1856  - 1898 

HAROLD  FREDERIC  was  bred  and  schooled,  at  college  and  at 
journalism,  in  Central  New  York.  His  fictions  were  almost  all 
written  in  London  during  the  later  years  of  his  correspondence 
with  the  "  New  York  Times."  The  most  popular  of  these, 
The  Damnation  of  Theron  Ware,  shows  him  stronger  in  the 
novel.  His  own  fondness  for  his  short  stories  is  due  in  part, 
doubtless,  to  their  being  closer  to  his  native  soil ;  but  the  one 
reprinted  below  shows  also  a  distinct  appreciation  of  the  form. 


THE   EVE   OF  THE  FOURTH 

[From  "In  the  Sixties,"  copyright,  1893,  1894,  1897,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  authorized  publishers  of  Harold  Frederic's  works ; 
reprinted  here  by  special  arrangement  with  them] 

IT  was  well  on  toward  evening  before  this  Third  of  July 
all  at  once  made  itself  gloriously  different  from  other 
days  in  my  mind. 

There  was  a  very  long  afternoon,  I  remember,  hot  and 
overcast,  with  continual  threats  of  rain,  which  never  came 
to  anything.  The  other  boys  were  too  excited  about  the 
morrow  to  care  for  present  play.  They  sat  instead  along 
the  edge  of  the  broad  platform-stoop  in  front  of  Delos 
Ingersoll's  grocery-store,  their  brown  feet  swinging  at  vary- 
ing heights  above  the  sidewalk,  and  bragged  about  the 
manner  in  which  they  contemplated  celebrating  the  anni- 
versary of  their  Independence.  Most  of  the  elder  lads 
were  very  independent  indeed ;  they  were  already  secure 
in  the  parental  permission  to  stay  up  all  night,  so  that  the 
Fourth  might  be  ushered  in  with  its  full  quota  of  ceremo- 
nial. The  smaller  urchins  pretended  that  they  also  had 
this  permission,  or  were  sure  of  getting  it.  Little  Denny 
Cregan  attracted  admiring  attention  by  vowing  that  he 
should  remain  out,  even  if  his  father  chased  him  with  a 
policeman  all  around  the  ward,  and  he  had  to  go  and  live 
in  a  cave  in  the  gulf  until  he  was  grown  up. 

My  inferiority  to  these  companions  of  mine  depressed 
me.  They  were  allowed  to  go  without  shoes  and  stock- 
ings ;  they  wore  loose  and  comfortable  old  clothes,  and 
were  under  no  responsibility  to  keep  them  dry  or  clean  or 
whole ;  they  had  their  pockets  literally  bulging  now  with 
zo  305 


3o6     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

all  sorts  of  portentous  engines  of  noise  and  racket  —  huge 
brown  "  double-enders,"  bound  with  waxed  cord ;  long,  slim, 
vicious-looking  " nigger- chasers ;  "  big  "Union  torpedoes," 
covered  with  clay,  which  made  a  report  like  a  horse-pistol, 
and  were  invaluable  for  frightening  farmers'  horses ;  and  so 
on  through  an  extended  catalogue  of  recondite  and  sinister 
explosives  upon  which  I  looked  with  awe,  as  their  owners 
from  time  to  time  exhibited  them  with  the  proud  simplicity 
of  those  accustomed  to  greatness.  Several  of  these  boys 
also  possessed  toy  cannons,  which  would  be  brought  forth 
at  twilight.  They  spoke  firmly  of  ramming  them  to  the 
muzzle  with  grass,  to  produce  a  greater  noise  —  even  if  it 
burst  them  and  killed  everybody. 

By  comparison,  my  lot  was  one  of  abasement.  I  was  a 
solitary  child,  and  a  victim  to  conventions.  A  blue  neck- 
tie was  daily  pinned  under  my  Byron  collar,  and  there  were 
gilt  buttons  on  my  zouave  jacket.  When  we  were  away  in 
the  pasture  playground  near  the  gulf,  and  I  ventured  to 
take  off  my  foot-gear,  every  dry  old  thistle-point  in  the 
whole  territory  seemed  to  arrange  itself  to  be  stepped  upon 
by  my  whitened  and  tender  soles.  I  could  not  swim ;  so, 
while  my  lithe,  bold  comrades  dived  out  of  sight  under  the 
deep  water,  and  darted  about  chasing  one  another  far  be- 
yond their  depth,  I  paddled  ignobly  around  the  "baby- 
hole  "  close  to  the  bank,  in  the  warm  and  muddy  shallows. 

Especially  apparent  was  my  state  of  humiliation  on  this 
July  afternoon.  I  had  no  "double-enders,"  nor  might  hope 
for  any.  The  mere  thought  of  a  private  cannon  seemed 
monstrous  and  unnatural  to  me.  By  some  unknown  pro- 
cess of  reasoning  my  mother  had  years  before  reached  the 
theory  that  a  good  boy  ought  to  have  two  ten-cent  packs  of 
small  fire-crackers  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  Four  or  five  suc- 
ceeding anniversaries  had  hardened  this  theory  into  an 
orthodox  tenet  of  faith,  with  all  its  observances  rigidly  fixed. 
The  fire-crackers  were  bought  for  me  overnight,  and  placed 
on  the  hall  table.  Beside  them  lay  a  long  rod  of  punk. 
When  I  hastened  down  and  out  in  the  morning,  with  these 


HAROLD    FREDERIC  307 

ceremonial  implements  in  my  hands,  the  hired  girl  would 
give  me,  in  an  old  kettle,  some  embers  from  the  wood-fire 
in  the  summer  kitchen.  Thus  furnished,  I  went  into  the 
front  yard,  and  in  solemn  solitude  fired  off  these  crackers 
one  by  one.  Those  which,  by  reason  of  having  lost  their 
tails,  were  only  fit  for  "  fizzes,"  I  saved  till  after  breakfast. 
With  the  exhaustion  of  these,  I  fell  reluctantly  back  upon 
the  public  for  entertainment.  I  could  see  the  soldiers,  hear 
the  band  and  the  oration,  and  in  the  evening,  if  it  did  n't 
rain,  enjoy  the  fireworks ;  but  my  own  contribution  to  the 
patriotic  noise  was  always  over  before  the  breakfast  dishes 
had  been  washed. 

My  mother  scorned  the  little  paper  torpedoes  as  flippant 
and  wasteful  things.  You  merely  threw  one  of  them,  and 
it  went  off,  she  said,  and  there  you  were.  I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  grasped  this  objection  in  its  entirety,  but  it 
impressed  my  whole  childhood  with  its  unanswerableness. 
Years  and  years  afterward,  when  my  own  children  asked 
for  torpedoes,  I  found  myself  unconsciously  advising  against 
them  on  quite  the  maternal  lines.  Nor  was  it  easy  to  budge 
the  good  lady  from  her  position  on  the  great  two-packs 
issue.  I  seem  to  recall  having  successfully  undermined  it 
once  or  twice,  but  two  was  the  rule.  When  I  called  her 
attention  to  the  fact  that  our  neighbor,  Tom  Hemingway, 
thought  nothing  of  exploding  a  whole  pack  at  a  time  inside 
their  wash-boiler,  she  was  not  dazzled,  but  only  replied : 
"  Wilful  waste  makes  woful  want." 

Of  course  the  idea  of  the  Hemingways  ever  knowing  what 
want  meant  was  absurd.  They  lived  a  dozen  doors  or  so 
from  us,  in  a  big  white  house  with  stately  white  columns 
rising  from  veranda  to  gable  across  the  whole  front,  and  a 
large  garden,  flowers  and  shrubs  in  front,  fruit-trees  and 
vegetables  behind.  Squire  Hemingway  was  the  most  im- 
portant man  in  our  part  of  the  town.  I  know  now  that  he 
was  never  anything  more  than  United  States  Commissioner 
of  Deeds,  but  in  those  days,  when  he  walked  down  the 
street  with  his  gold-headed  cane,  his  blanket-shawl  folded 


3o8     AMERICAN    SHORT    STORIES 

over  his  arm,  and  his  severe,  dignified,  close-shaven  face 
held  well  up  in  the  air,  I  seemed  to  behold  a  companion  of 
Presidents. 

This  great  man  had  two  sons.  The  elder  of  them,  De 
Witt  Hemingway,  was  a  man  grown,  and  was  at  the  front. 
I  had  seen  him  march  away,  over  a  year  before,  with  a 
bright  drawn  sword,  at  the  side  of  his  company.  The  other 
son,  Tom,  was  my  senior  by  only  a  twelvemonth.  He  was 
by  nature  proud,  but  often  consented  to  consort  with  me 
when  the  selection  of  other  available  associates  was  at  low 
ebb. 

It  was  to  this  Tom  that  I  listened  with  most  envious 
eagerness,  in  front  of  the  grocery-store,  on  the  afternoon 
of  which  I  speak.  He  did  not  sit  on  the  stoop  with  the 
others  —  no  one  expected  quite  that  degree  of  condescen- 
sion —  but  leaned  nonchalantly  against  a  post,  whittling 
out  a  new  ramrod  for  his  cannon.  He  said  that  this  year 
he  was  not  going  to  have  any  ordinary  fire-crackers  at  all ; 
they,  he  added  with  a  meaning  glance  at  me,  were  only  fit 
for  girls.  He  might  do  a  little  in  "  double-enders,"  but 
his  real  point  would  be  in  "  ringers  "  — an  incredible  giant 
variety  of  cracker,  Turkey-red  like  the  other,  but  in  size 
almost  a  rolling-pin.  Some  of  these  he  would  fire  off  singly, 
between  volleys  from  his  cannon.  But  a  good  many  he 
intended  to  explode,  in  bunches  say  of  six,  inside  the  tin 
wash-boiler,  brought  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road  for 
that  purpose.  It  would  doubtless  blow  the  old  thing  sky- 
high,  but  that  did  n't  matter.  They  could  get  a  new  one. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  big  bell  in  the  tower  of  the  town- 
hall  burst  forth  in  a  loud  clangor  of  swift- repeated  strokes. 
It  was  half  a  mile  away,  but  the  moist  air  brought  the 
urgent,  clamorous  sounds  to  our  ears  as  if  the  belfry  had 
stood  close  above  us.  We  sprang  off  the  stoop  and  stood 
poised,  waiting  to  hear  the  number  of  the  ward  struck,  and 
ready  to  scamper  off  on  the  instant  if  the  fire  was  anywhere 
in  our  part  of  the  town.  But  the  excited  peal  went  on  and 
on,  without  a  pause.  It  became  obvious  that  this  meant 


HAROLD    FREDERIC  309 

something  besides  a  fire.  Perhaps  some  of  us  wondered 
vaguely  what  that  something  might  be,  but  as  a  body  our 
interest  had  lapsed.  Billy  Norris,  who  was  the  son  of  poor 
parents,  but  could  whip  even  Tom  Hemingway,  said  he  had 
been  told  that  the  German  boys  on  the  other  side  of  the 
gulf  were  coming  over  to  "  rush  "  us  on  the  following  day, 
and  that  we  ought  all  to  collect  nails  to  fire  at  them  from 
our  cannon.  This  we  pledged  ourselves  to  do  —  the  bell 
keeping  up  its  throbbing  tumult  ceaselessly. 

Suddenly  we  saw  the  familiar  figure  of  Johnson  running 
up  the  street  toward  us.  What  his  first  name  was  I  never 
knew.  To  every  one,  little  or  big,  he  was  just  Johnson. 
He  and  his  family  had  moved  into  our  town  after  the  war 
began;  I  fancy  they  moved  away  again  before  it  ended. 
I  do  not  even  know  what  he  did  for  a  living.  But  he 
seemed  always  drunk,  always  turbulently  good-natured,  and 
always  shouting  out  the  news  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  I 
cannot  pretend  to  guess  how  he  found  out  everything  as  he 
did,  or  why,  having  found  it  out,  he  straightway  rushed 
homeward,  scattering  the  intelligence  as  he  ran.  Most 
probably  Johnson  was  moulded  by  Nature  as  a  town-crier, 
but  was  born  by  accident  some  generations  after  the  race 
of  bellmen  had  disappeared.  Our  neighborhood  did  not 
like  him ;  our  mothers  did  not  know  Mrs.  Johnson,  and 
we  boys  behaved  with  snobbish  roughness  to  his  chil- 
dren. He  seemed  not  to  mind  this  at  all,  but  came  up 
unwearyingly  to  shout  out  the  tidings  of  the  day  for  our 
benefit. 

"  Vicksburg  's  fell !  Vicksburg  's  fell !  "  was  what  we 
heard  him  yelling  as  he  approached. 

Delos  Ingersoll  and  his  hired  boy  ran  out  of  the  grocery. 
Doors  opened  along  the  street  and  heads  were  thrust  in- 
quiringly out. 

"  Vicksburg 's  fell ! "  he  kept  hoarsely  proclaiming,  his 
arms  waving  in  the  air,  as  he  staggered  along  at  a  dog-trot 
past  us,  and  went  into  the  saloon  next  to  the  grocery. 

I  cannot  say  how  definite  an  idea  these  tidings  conveyed 


310      AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

to  our  boyish  minds.  I  have  a  notion  that  at  the  time  I 
assumed  that  Vicksburg  had  something  to  do  with  Gettys- 
burg, where  I  knew,  from  the  talk  of  my  elders,  that  an 
awful  fight  had  been  proceeding  since  the  middle  of  the 
week.  Doubtless  this  confusion  was  aided  by  the  fact  that 
an  hour  or  so  later,  on  that  same  wonderful  day,  the  wire 
brought  us  word  that  this  terrible  battle  on  Pennsylvanian 
soil  had  at  last  taken  the  form  of  a  Union  victory.  It  is 
difficult  now  to  see  how  we  could  have  known  both  these 
things  on  the  Third  of  July  —  that  is  to  say,  before  the 
people  actually  concerned  seemed  to  have  been  sure  of 
them.  Perhaps  it  was  only  inspired  guesswork,  but  I  know 
that  my  town  went  wild  over  the  news,  and  that  the  clouds 
overhead  cleared  away  as  if  by  magic. 

The  sun  did  well  to  spread  that  summer  sky  at  eventide 
with  all  the  pageantry  of  color  the  spectrum  knows.  It 
would  have  been  preposterous  that  such  a  day  should  slink 
off  in  dull,  Quaker  drabs.  Men  were  shouting  in  the  streets 
now.  The  old  cannon  left  over  from  the  Mexican  war  had 
been  dragged  out  on  to  the  rickety  covered  river-bridge, 
and  was  frightening  the  fishes,  and  shaking  the  dry,  worm- 
eaten  rafters,  as  fast  as  the  swab  and  rammer  could  work. 
Our  town  bandsmen  were  playing  as  they  had  never  played 
before,  down  in  the  square  in  front  of  the  post-office.  The 
management  of  the  Universe  could  not  hurl  enough  wild 
fireworks  into  the  exultant  sunset  to  fit  our  mood. 

The  very  air  was  filled  with  the  scent  of  triumph  —  the 
spirit  of  conquest.  It  seemed  only  natural  that  I  should 
march  off  to  my  mother  and  quite  collectedly  tell  her  that 
I  desired  to  stay  out  all  night  with  the  other  boys.  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  daring  to  prefer  such  a  request  in  other 
years.  Now  I  was  scarcely  conscious  of  surprise  when  she 
gave  her  permission,  adding  with  a  smile  that  I  would  be 
glad  enough  to  come  in  and  go  to  bed  before  half  the  night 
was  over. 

I  steeled  my  heart  after  supper  with  the  proud  resolve 
that  if  the  night  turned  out  to  be  as  protracted  as  one  of 


HAROLD   FREDERIC  311 

those  Lapland  winter  nights  we  read  about  in  the  geography, 
I  still  would  not  surrender. 

The  boys  outside  were  not  so  excited  over  the  tidings  of 
my  unlooked-for  victory  as  I  had  expected  them  to  be. 
They  received  the  news,  in  fact,  with  a  rather  mortifying 
stoicism.  Tom  Hemingway,  however,  took  enough  interest 
in  the  affair  to  suggest  that,  instead  of  spending  my  twenty 
cents  in  paltry  fire-crackers,  I  might  go  down  town  and  buy 
another  can  of  powder  for  his  cannon.  By  doing  so,  he 
pointed  out,  I  would  be  a  part- proprietor,  as  it  were,  of  the 
night's  performance,  and  would  be  entitled  to  occasionally 
touch  the  cannon  off.  This  generosity  affected  me,  and 
I  hastened  down  the  long  hill-street  to  show  myself 
worthy  of  it,  repeating  the  instruction  of  "  Kentucky  Bear- 
Hunter-coarse-grain  "  over  and  over  again  to  myself  as  I 
went. 

Half-way  on  my  journey  I  overtook  a  person  whom,  even 
in  the  gathering  twilight,  I  recognized  as  Miss  Stratford,  the 
school-teacher.  She  also  was  walking  down  the  hill  and 
rapidly.  It  did  not  need  the  sight  of  a  letter  in  her  hand 
to  tell  me  that  she  was  going  to  the  post-office.  In  those 
cruel  war-days  everybody  went  to  the  post-office.  I  myself 
went  regularly  to  get  our  mail,  and  to  exchange  shin-plasters 
for  one-cent  stamps  with  which  to  buy  yeast  and  other  com- 
modities that  called  for  minute  fractional  currency. 

Although  I  was  very  fond  of  Miss  Stratford  —  I  still 
recall  her  gentle  eyes,  and  pretty,  rounded,  dark  face,  in 
its  frame  of  long,  black  curls,  with  tender  liking  —  I  now 
coldly  resolved  to  hurry  past,  pretending  not  to  know  her. 
It  was  a  mean  thing  to  do ;  Miss  Stratford  had  always  been 
good  to  me,  shining  in  that  respect  in  brilliant  contrast 
to  my  other  teachers,  whom  I  hated  bitterly.  Still,  the 
"  Kentucky  Bear-Hunter-coarse-grain  "  was  too  important 
a  matter  to  wait  upon  any  mere  female  friendships,  and  I 
quickened  my  pace  into  a  trot,  hoping  to  scurry  by  unrec- 
ognized. 

"Oh,  Andrew !  is  that  you?"  I  heard  her  call  out  as  I 


3i2     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

ran  past.  For  the  instant  I  thought  of  rushing  on,  quite  as 
if  I  had  not  heard.  Then  I  stopped  and  walked  beside 
her. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  up  all  night :  mother  says  I  may ; 
and  I  am  going  to  fire  off  Tom  Hemingway's  big  cannon 
every  fourth  time,  straight  through  till  breakfast  time,"  I 
announced  to  her  loftily. 

"  Dear  me  !  I  ought  to  be  proud  to  be  seen  walking 
with  such  an  important  citizen,"  she  answered,  with  kindly 
playfulness.  She  added  more  gravely,  after  a  moment's 
pause  :  "  Then  Tom  is  out  playing  with  the  other  boys, 
is  he?" 

"  Why,  of  course  !  "  I  responded.  "  He  always  lets  us 
stand  around  when  he  fires  off  his  cannon.  He  's  got  some 
'  ringers '  this  year  too." 

I  heard  Miss  Stratford  murmur  an  impulsive  "Thank 
God  !  "  under  her  breath. 

Full  as  the  day  had  been  of  surprises,  I  could  not  help 
wondering  that  the  fact  of  Tom's  ringers  should  stir  up 
such  profound  emotions  in  the  teacher's  breast.  Since  the 
subject  so  interested  her,  I  went  on  with  a  long  catalogue 
of  Tom's  other  pyrotechnic  possessions,  and  from  that  to 
an  account  of  his  almost  supernatural  collection  of  postage- 
stamps.  In  a  few  minutes  more  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
revealed  to  her  the  great  secret  of  my  life,  which  was  my 
determination,  in  case  I  came  to  assume  the  victorious  role 
and  rank  of  Napoleon,  to  immediately  make  Tom  a  Mar- 
shal of  the  Empire. 

But  we  had  reached  the  post-office  square.  I  had  never 
before  seen  it  so  full  of  people. 

Even  to  my  boyish  eyes  the  tragic  line  of  division  which 
cleft  this  crowd  in  twain  was  apparent.  On  one  side,  over 
by  the  Seminary,  the  youngsters  had  lighted  a  bonfire,  and 
were  running  about  it  —  some  of  the  bolder  ones  jumping 
through  it  in  frolicsome  recklessness.  Close  by  stood  the 
band,  now  valiantly  thumping  out  "  John  Brown's  Body " 
upon  the  noisy  night  air.  It  was  quite  dark  by  this  time, 


HAROLD   FREDERIC  313 

but  the  musicians  knew  the  tune  by  heart.  So  did  the 
throng  about  them,  and  sang  it  with  lusty  fervor.  The 
doors  of  the  saloon  toward  the  corner  of  the  square  were 
flung  wide  open.  Two  black  streams  of  men  kept  in  motion 
under  the  radiance  of  the  big  reflector-lamp  over  these 
doors  —  one  going  in,  one  coming  out.  They  slapped  one 
another  on  the  back  as  they  passed,  with  exultant  screams 
and  shouts.  Every  once  in  a  while,  when  movement  was 
for  the  instant  blocked,  some  voice  lifted  above  the  others 
would  begin  "  Hip-hip-hip-hip  —  "  and  then  would  come 
a  roar  that  fairly  drowned  the  music. 

On  the  post-office  side  of  the  square  there  was  no  bonfire. 
No  one  raised  a  cheer.  A  densely  packed  mass  of  men 
and  women  stood  in  front  of  the  big  square  stone  building, 
with  its  closed  doors,  and  curtained  windows  upon  which, 
from  time  to  time,  the  shadow  of  some  passing  clerk,  bare- 
headed and  hurried,  would  be  momentarily  thrown.  They 
waited  in  silence  for  the  night  mail  to  be  sorted.  If  they 
spoke  to  one  another,  it  was  in  whispers  —  as  if  they  had 
been  standing  with  uncovered  heads  at  a  funeral  service  in 
a  graveyard.  The  dim  light  reflected  over  from  the  bonfire, 
or  down  from  the  shaded  windows  of  the  post-office,  showed 
solemn,  hard-lined,  anxious  faces.  Their  lips  scarcely  moved 
when  they  muttered  little  low-toned  remarks  to  their  neigh- 
bors. They  spoke  from  the  side  of  the  mouth,  and  only 
on  one  subject. 

"  He  went  all  through  Fredericksburg  without  a 
scratch  —  " 

"  He  looks  so  much  like  me  —  General  Palmer  told  my 
brother  he  'd  have  known  his  hide  in  a  tan-yard  —  " 

"  He 's  been  gone  —  let 's  see  —  it  was  a  year  some  time 
last  April  —  " 

"  He  was  counting  on  a  furlough  the  first  of  this  month. 
I  suppose  nobody  got  one  as  things  turned  out  —  " 

"  He  said,  « No ;  it  ain't  my  style.  I  '11  fight  as  much  as 
you  like,  but  I  won't  be  nigger-waiter  for  no  man,  captain 
or  no  captain  '  —  " 


3H     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

Thus  I  heard  the  scattered  murmurs  among  the  grown- 
up heads  above  me,  as  we  pushed  into  the  outskirts  of  the 
throng,  and  stood  there,  waiting  for  the  rest.  There  was 
no  sentence  without  a  "  he  "  in  it.  A  stranger  might  have 
fancied  that  they  were  all  talking  of  one  man.  I  knew 
better.  They  were  the  fathers  and  mothers,  the  sisters, 
brothers,  wives  of  the  men  whose  regiments  had  been  in 
that  horrible  three  days'  fight  at  Gettysburg.  Each  was 
thinking  and  speaking  of  his  own,  and  took  it  for  granted 
the  others  would  understand.  For  that  matter,  they  all  did 
understand.  The  town  knew  the  name  and  family  of  every 
one  of  the  twelve-score  sons  she  had  in  this  battle. 

It  is  not  very  clear  to  me  now  why  people  all  went  to  the 
post-office  to  wait  for  the  evening  papers  that  came  in  from 
the  nearest  big  city.  Nowadays  they  would  be  brought  in 
bulk  and  sold  on  the  street  before  the  mail-bags  had  reached 
the  post-office.  Apparently  that  had  not  yet  been  thought 
of  in  our  slow  old  town. 

The  band  across  the  square  had  started  up  afresh  with 
"  Annie  Lisle  "  —  the  sweet  old  refrain  of  "  Wave  willows, 
murmur  waters,"  comes  back  to  me  now  after  a  quarter- 
century  of  forgetfulness  —  when  all  at  once  there  was  a 
sharp  forward  movement  of  the  crowd.  The  doors  had  been 
thrown  open,  and  the  hallway  was  on  the  instant  filled  with 
a  swarming  multitude.  The  band  had  stopped  as  suddenly 
as  it  began,  and  no  more  cheering  was  heard.  We  could 
see  whole  troops  of  dark  forms  scudding  toward  us  from 
the  other  side  of  the  square. 

"  Run  in  for  me  —  that 's  a  good  boy  —  ask  for  Dr.  Strat- 
ford's mail,"  the  teacher  whispered,  bending  over  me. 

It  seemed  an  age  before  I  finally  got  back  to  her,  with 
the  paper  in  its  postmarked  wrapper  buttoned  up  inside 
my  jacket.  I  had  never  been  in  so  fierce  and  determined 
a  crowd  before,  and  I  emerged  from  it  at  last,  confused  in 
wits  and  panting  for  breath.  I  was  still  looking  about 
through  the  gloom  in  a  foolish  way  for  Miss  Stratford,  when 
I  felt  her  hand  laid  sharply  on  my  shoulder. 


HAROLD    FREDERIC  315 

"  Well  —  where  is  it  ?  —  did  nothing  come  ?  "  she  asked, 
her  voice  trembling  with  eagerness,  and  the  eyes  which  I 
had  thought  so  soft  and  dove-like  flashing  down  upon  me  as 
if  she  were  Miss  Pritchard,  and  I  had  been  caught  chewing 
gum  in  school. 

I  drew  the  paper  out  from  under  my  roundabout,  and 
gave  it  to  her.  She  grasped  it,  and  thrust  a  finger  under 
the  cover  to  tear  it  off.  Then  she  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  looked  about  her.  "Come  where  there  is  some  light," 
she  said,  and  started  up  the  street.  Although  she  seemed 
to  have  spoken  more  to  herself  than  to  me,  I  followed  her 
in  silence,  close  to  her  side. 

For  a  long  way  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  every  lighted 
store -window  was  thronged  with  a  group  of  people  clustered 
tight  about  some  one  who  had  a  paper,  and  was  reading 
from  it  aloud.  Beside  broken  snatches  of  this  monologue, 
we  caught,  now  groans  of  sorrow  and  horror,  now  exclama- 
tions of  proud  approval,  and  even  the  beginnings  of  cheers, 
broken  in  upon  by  a  general  "  'Sh-h  !  "  as  we  hurried  past 
outside  the  curb. 

It  was  under  a  lamp  in  the  little  park  nearly  half-way  up 
the  hill  that  Miss  Stratford  stopped,  and  spread  the  paper 
open.  I  see  her  still,  white-faced,  under  the  flickering  gas- 
light, her  black  curls  making  a  strange  dark  bar  between 
the  pale-straw  hat  and  the  white  of  her  shoulder  shawl  and 
muslin  dress,  her  hands  trembling  as  they  held  up  the  ex- 
tended sheet.  She  scanned  the  columns  swiftly,  skimmingly 
for  a  time,  as  I  could  see  by  the  way  she  moved  her  round 
chin  up  and  down.  Then  she  came  to  a  part  which  called 
for  closer  reading.  The  paper  shook  perceptibly  now,  as 
she  bent  her  eyes  upon  it.  Then  all  at  once  it  fell  from  her 
hands,  and  without  a  sound  she  walked  away. 

I  picked  the  paper  up  and  followed  her  along  the  gravelled 
path.  It  was  like  pursuing  a  ghost,  so  weirdly  white  did 
her  summer  attire  now  look  to  my  frightened  eyes,  with  such 
a  swift  and  deathly  silence  did  she  move.  The  path  upon 
which  we  were  described  a  circle  touching  the  four  sides  of 


3i6     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

the  square.  She  did  not  quit  it  when  the  intersection  with 
our  street  was  reached,  but  followed  straight  round  again 
.  toward  the  point  where  we  had  entered  the  park.  This,  too, 
in  turn,  she  passed,  gliding  noiselessly  forward  under  the 
black  arches  of  the  overhanging  elms.  The  suggestion  that 
she  did  not  know  she  was  going  round  and  round  in  a  ring 
startled  my  brain.  I  would  have  run  up  to  her  now  if  I  had 
dared. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  and  saw  that  I  was  behind  her.  She 
sank  slowly  into  one  of  the  garden-seats,  by  the  path,  and 
held  out  for  a  moment  a  hesitating  hand  toward  me.  I 
went  up  at  this  and  looked  into  her  face.  Shadowed  as  it 
was,  the  change  I  saw  there  chilled  my  blood.  It  was  like 
the  face  of  some  one  I  had  never  seen  before,  with  fixed, 
wide-open,  staring  eyes  which  seemed  to  look  beyond  me 
through  the  darkness,  upon  some  terrible  sight  no  other 
could  see. 

"  Go  —  run  and  tell  —  Tom  — to  go  home  !  His  brother 
—  his  brother  has  been  killed,"  she  said  to  me,  choking  over 
the  words  as  if  they  hurt  her  throat,  and  still  with  the  same 
strange  dry-eyed,  far-away  gaze  covering  yet  not  seeing  me. 

I  held  out  the  paper  for  her  to  take,  but  she  made  no 
sign,  and  I  gingerly  laid  it  on  the  seat  beside  her.  I  hung 
about  for  a  minute  or  two  longer,  imagining  that  she  might 
have  something  else  to  say  —  but  no  word  came.  Then, 
with  a  feebly  inopportune  "  Well,  good-by,"  I  started  off 
alone  up  the  hill. 

It  was  a  distinct  relief  to  find  that  my  companions  were 
congregated  at  the  lower  end  of  the  common,  instead  of  their 
accustomed  haunt  farther  up  near  my  home,  for  the  walk 
had  been  a  lonely  one,  and  I  was  deeply  depressed  by  what 
had  happened.  Tom,  it  seems,  had  been  called  away  some 
quarter  of  an  hour  before.  All  the  boys  knew  of  the  calam- 
ity which  had  befallen  the  Hemingways.  We  talked  about 
it,  from  time  to  time,  as  we  loaded  and  fired  the  cannon 
which  Tom  had  obligingly  turned  over  to  my  friends.  It 
had  been  out  of  deference  to  the  feelings  of  the  stricken 


HAROLD    FREDERIC  317 

household  that  they  had  betaken  themselves  and  their  racket 
off  to  the  remote  corner  of  the  common.  The  solemnity  of 
the  occasion  silenced  criticism  upon  my  conduct  in  forget- 
ting to  buy  the  powder.  "  There  would  be  enough  as  long 
as  it  lasted,"  Billy  Norris  said,  with  philosophic  decision. 

We  speculated  upon  the  likelihood  of  De  Witt  Heming- 
way's being  given  a  military  funeral.  These  mournful 
pageants  had  by  this  time  become  such  familiar  things  to 
us  that  the  prospect  of  one  more  had  no  element  of  excite- 
ment in  it,  save  as  it  involved  a  gloomy  sort  of  distinction 
for  Tom.  He  would  ride  in  the  first  mourning-carriage 
with  his  parents,  and  this  would  associate  us,  as  we  walked 
along  ahead  of  the  band,  with  the  most  intimate  aspects  of 
the  demonstration.  We  regretted  now  that  the  soldier  com- 
pany which  we  had  so  long  projected  remained  still  unorga- 
nized. Had  it  been  otherwise  we  would  probably  have 
been  awarded  the  right  of  the  line  in  the  procession.  Some 
one  suggested  that  it  was  not  too  late  —  and  we  promptly 
bound  ourselves  to  meet  after  breakfast  next  day  to  orga- 
nize and  begin  drilling.  If  we  worked  at  this  night  and 
day,  and  our  parents  instantaneously  provided  us  with  uni- 
forms and  guns,  we  should  be  in  time.  It  was  also  arranged 
that  we  should  be  called  the  De  Witt  C.  Hemingway  Fire 
Zouaves,  and  that  Billy  Norris  should  be  side  captain.  The 
chief  command  would,  of  course,  be  reserved  for  Tom.  We 
would  specially  salute  him  as  he  rode  past  in  the  closed  car- 
riage, and  then  fall  in  behind,  forming  his  honorary  escort. 

None  of  us  had  known  the  dead  officer  closely,  owing  to 
his  advanced  age.  He  was  seven  or  eight  years  older  than 
even  Tom.  But  the  more  elderly  among  our  group  had 
seen  him  play  base-ball  in  the  academy  nine,  and  our 
neighborhood  was  still  alive  with  legends  of  his  early 
audacity  and  skill  in  collecting  barrels  and  dry-goods  boxes 
at  night  for  election  bonfires.  It  was  remembered  that 
once  he  carried  away  a  whole  front-stoop  from  the  house 
of  a  little  German  tailor  on  one  of  the  back  streets.  As 
we  stood  around  the  heated  cannon,  in  the  great  black 


3i8     AMERICAN  SHORT   STORIES 

solitude  of  the  common,  our  fancies  pictured  this  redoubt- 
able young  man  once  more  among  us  —  not  in  his  blue 
uniform,  with  crimson  sash  and  sword  laid  by  his  side,  and 
the  gauntlets  drawn  over  his  lifeless  hands,  but  as  a  taller 
and  glorified  Tom,  in  a  roundabout  jacket  and  copper- 
toed  boots,  giving  the  law  on  this  his  playground.  The 
very  cannon  at  our  feet  had  once  been  his.  The  night 
air  became  peopled  with  ghosts  of  his  contemporaries  — 
handsome  boys  who  had  grown  up  before  us,  and  had 
gone  away  to  lay  down  their  lives  in  far-off  Virginia  or 
Tennessee. 

These  heroic  shades  brought  drowsiness  in  their  train. 
We  lapsed  into  long  silences,  punctuated  by  yawns,  when 
it  was  not  our  turn  to  ram  and  touch  off  the  cannon. 
Finally  some  of  us  stretched  ourselves  out  on  the  grass, 
in  the  warm  darkness,  to  wait  comfortably  for  this  turn  to 
come. 

What  did  come  instead  was  daybreak  —  finding  Billy 
Norris  and  myself  alone  constant  to  our  all-night  vow.  We 
sat  up  and  shivered  as  we  rubbed  our  eyes.  The  morning 
air  had  a  chilling  freshness  that  went  to  my  bones  —  and 
these,  moreover,  were  filled  with  those  novel  aches  and 
stiffnesses  which  beds  were  invented  to  prevent.  We  stood 
up,  stretching  out  our  arms,  and  gaping  at  the  pearl-and- 
rose  beginnings  of  the  sunrise  in  the  eastern  sky.  The 
other  boys  had  all  gone  home,  and  taken  the  cannon  with 
them.  Only  scraps  of  torn  paper  and  tiny  patches  of 
burnt  grass  marked  the  site  of  our  celebration. 

My  first  weak  impulse  was  to  march  home  without  delay, 
and  get  into  bed  as  quickly  as  might  be.  But  Billy  Norris 
looked  so  finely  resolute  and  resourceful  that  I  hesitated 
to  suggest  this,  and  said  nothing,  leaving  the  initiative  to 
him.  One  could  see,  by  the  most  casual  glance,  that  he 
was  superior  to  mere  considerations  of  unseasonableness 
in  hours.  I  remembered  now  that  he  was  one  of  that 
remarkable  body  of  boys,  the  paper-carriers,  who  rose 
when  all  others  were  asleep  in  their  warm  nests,  and 


HAROLD   FREDERIC  319 

trudged  about  long  before  breakfast  distributing  the  Clarion 
among  the  well-to-do  households.  This  fact  had  given  him 
his  position  in  our  neighborhood  as  quite  the  next  in 
leadership  to  Tom  Hemingway. 

He  presently  outlined  his  plans  to  me,  after  having  tried 
the  centre  of  light  on  the  horizon,  where  soon  the  sun 
would  be,  by  an  old  brass  compass  he  had  in  his  pocket  — 
a  process  which  enabled  him,  he  said,  to  tell  pretty  well 
what  time  it  was.  The  paper  would  n't  be  out  for  nearly 
two  hours  yet  —  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact  of  a  great 
battle,  there  would  have  been  no  paper  at  all  on  this  glori- 
ous anniversary — but  he  thought  we  would  go  down-town 
and  see  what  was  going  on  around  about  the  newspaper 
office.  Forthwith  we  started.  He  cheered  my  faint  spirits 
by  assuring  me  that  I  would  soon  cease  to  be  sleepy,  and 
would,  in  fact,  feel  better  than  usual.  I  dragged  my  feet 
along  at  his  side,  waiting  for  this  revival  to  come,  and 
meantime  furtively  yawning  against  my  sleeve. 

Billy  seemed  to  have  dreamed  a  good  deal,  during  our 
nap  on  the  common,  about  the  De  Witt  C.  Hemingway 
Fire  Zouaves.  At  least  he  had  now  in  his  head  a  marvel- 
lously elaborated  system  of  organization,  which  he  unfolded 
as  we  went  along.  I  felt  that  I  had  never  before  realized 
his  greatness,  his  born  genius  for  command.  His  scheme 
halted  nowhere.  He  allotted  offices  with  discriminating 
firmness ;  he  treated  the  question  of  uniforms  and  guns 
as  a  trivial  detail  which  would  settle  itself;  he  spoke  with 
calm  confidence  of  our  offering  our  services  to  the  Republic 
in  the  autumn ;  his  clear  vision  saw  even  the  materials  for 
a  fife-and-drum  corps  among  the  German  boys  in  the  back 
streets.  It  was  true  that  I  appeared  personally  to  play 
a  meagre  part  in  these  great  projects ;  the  most  that  was 
said  about  me  was  that  I  might. make  a  fair  third-corporal. 
But  Fate  had  thrown  in  my  way  such  a  wonderful  chance 
of  becoming  intimate  with  Billy  that  I  made  sure  I  should 
swiftly  advance  in  rank  —  the  more  so  as  I  discerned  in 
the  background  of  his  thoughts,  as  it  were,  a  grim  deter- 


320     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

mination  to  make  short  work  of  Tom  Hemingway's  aristo- 
cratic pretensions,  once  the  funeral  was  over. 

We  were  forced  to  make  a  detour  of  the  park  on  our 
way  down,  because  Billy  observed  some  half-dozen  Irish 
boys  at  play  with  a  cannon  inside,  whom  he  knew  to  be 
hostile.  If  there  had  been  only  four,  he  said,  he  would 
have  gone  in  and  routed  them.  He  could  whip  any  two 
of  them,  he  added,  with  one  hand  tied  behind  his  back. 
I  listened  with  admiration.  Billy  was  not  tall,  but  he 
possessed  great  thickness  of  chest  and  length  of  arm.  His 
skin  was  so  dark  that  we  canvassed  the  theory  from  time  to 
time  of  his  having  Indian  blood.  He  did  not  discourage 
this,  and  he  admitted  himself  that  he  was  double-jointed. 

The  streets  of  the  business  part  of  the  town,  into  which 
we  now  made  our  way,  were  quite  deserted.  We  went 
around  into  the  yard  behind  the  printing-office,  where  the 
carrier-boys  were  wont  to  wait  for  the  press  to  get  to  work ; 
and  Billy  displayed  some  impatience  at  discovering  that 
here  too  there  was  no  one.  It  was  now  broad  daylight, 
but  through  the  windows  of  the  composing-room  we  could 
see  some  of  the  printers  still  setting  type  by  kerosene  lamps. 

We  seated  ourselves  at  the  end  of  the  yard  on  a  big,  flat, 
smooth-faced  stone,  and  Billy  produced  from  his  pocket  a 
number  of  "  em "  quads,  so  he  called  them,  with  which 
the  carriers  had  learned  from  the  printers'  boys  to  play  a 
very  beautiful  game.  You  shook  the  pieces  of  metal  in 
your  hands  and  threw  them  on  the  stone ;  your  score  de- 
pended upon  the  number  of  nicked  sides  that  were  turned 
uppermost.  We  played  this  game  in  the  interest  of  good- 
fellowship  for  a  little.  Then  Billy  told  me  that  the  carriers 
always  played  it  for  pennies,  and  that  it  was  unmanly  for 
us  to  do  otherwise.  He  had  no  pennies  at  that  precise 
moment,  but  would  pay  at  the  end  of  the  week  what  he  had 
lost ;  in  the  meantime  there  was  my  twenty  cents  to  go  on 
with.  After  this  Billy  threw  so  many  nicks  uppermost  that 
my  courage  gave  way,  and  I  made  an  attempt  to  stop  the 
game ;  but  a  single  remark  from  him  as  to  the  military 


HAROLD    FREDERIC  321 

destiny  which  he  was  reserving  for  me,  if  I  only  displayed 
true  soldierly  nerve  and  grit,  sufficed  to  quiet  me  once 
more,  and  the  play  went  on.  I  had  now  only  five  cents 
left. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  interposed  itself  between  the  sunlight 
and  the  stone.  I  looked  up,  to  behold  a  small  boy  with 
bare  arms  and  a  blackened  apron  standing  over  me,  watch- 
ing our  game.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  ink  on  his  face 
and  hands,  and  a  hardened,  not  to  say  rakish  expression  in 
his  eye. 

"Why  don't  you  'jeff'  with  somebody  of  your  own 
size?"  he  demanded  of  Billy  after  having  looked  me  over 
critically. 

He  was  not  nearly  so  big  as  Billy,  and  I  expected  to 
see  the  latter  instantly  rise  and  crush  him,  but  Billy  only 
laughed  and  said  we  were  playing  for  fun ;  he  was  going  to 
give  me  all  my  money  back.  I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  this, 
but  still  felt  surprised  at  the  propitiatory  manner  Billy 
adopted  toward  this  diminutive  inky  boy.  It  was  not  the 
demeanor  befitting  a  side-captain  —  and  what  made  it 
worse  was  that  the  strange  boy  loftily  declined  to  be  ca- 
joled by  it.  He  sniffed  when  Billy  told  him  about  the 
military  company  we  were  forming;  he  coldly  shook  his 
head,  with  a  curt  "  Nixie  !  "  when  invited  to  join  it ;  and 
he  laughed  aloud  at  hearing  the  name  our  organization  was 
to  bear. 

"  He  ain't  dead  at  all  —  that  De  Witt  Hemingway,"  he 
said,  with  jeering  contempt. 

"  Hain't  he  though  !  "  exclaimed  Billy.  "  The  news  come 
last  night.  Tom  had  to  go  home  —  his  mother  sent  for  him 
—  on  account  of  it !  " 

"  I  '11  bet  you  a  quarter  he  ain't  dead,"  responded  the 
practical  inky  boy.  "  Money  up,  though  !  " 

"  I  've  only  got  fifteen  cents.  I  '11  bet  you  that,  though," 
rejoined  Billy,  producing  my  torn  and  dishevelled  shin- 
plasters. 

"  All  right !     Wait  here  !  "  said  the  boy,  running  off  to 


322     AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 

the  building  and  disappearing  through  the  door.  There 
was  barely  time  for  me  to  learn  from  ray  companion  that 
this  printer's  apprentice  was  called  "  the  devil,"  and  could 
not  only  whistle  between  his  teeth  and  crack  his  fingers, 
but  chew  tobacco,  when  he  reappeared,  with  a  long  narrow 
strip  of  paper  in  his  hand.  This  he  held  out  for  us  to  see, 
indicating  with  an  ebon  forefinger  the  special  paragraph 
we  were  to  read.  Billy  looked  at  it  sharply,  for  several 
moments  in  silence.  Then  he  said  to  me  :  "  What  does  it 
say  there  ?  I  must  'a'  got  some  powder  in  my  eyes  last 
night." 

I  read  this  paragraph  aloud,  not  without  an  unworthy 
feeling  that  the  inky  boy  would  now  respect  me  deeply : 

"  CORRECTION.  Lieutenant  De  Witt  C.  Hemingway,  of  Com- 
pany A,  — th  New  York,  reported  in  earlier  despatches  among 
the  killed,  is  uninjured.  The  officer  killed  is  Lieutenant  Carl 
Heinninge,  Company  F,  same  regiment" 

Billy's  face  visibly  lengthened  as  I  read  this  out,  and  he 
felt  us  both  looking  at  him.  He  made  a  pretence  of  exam- 
ining the  slip  of  paper  again,  but  in  a  half-hearted  way. 
Then  he  ruefully  handed  over  the  fifteen  cents  and,  rising 
from  the  stone,  shook  himself. 

"  Them  Dutchmen  never  was  no  good ! "  was  what  he 
said. 

The  inky  boy  had  put  the  money  in  the  pocket  under  his 
apron,  and  grinned  now  with  as  much  enjoyment  as  dignity 
would  permit  him  to  show.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  any 
longer  the  original  source  of  his  winnings,  and  it  was  appar- 
ent that  I  could  not  with  decency  recall  it  to  him.  Some 
odd  impulse  prompted  me,  however,  to  ask  him  if  I  might 
have  the  paper  he  had  in  his  hand.  He  was  magnanimous 
enough  to  present  me  with  the  proof-sheet  on  the  spot. 
Then  with  another  grin  he  turned  and  left  us. 

Billy  stood  sullenly  kicking  with  his  bare  toes  into  a  sand- 
heap  by  the  stone.  He  would  not  answer  me  when  I  spoke 
to  him.  It  flashed  across  my  perceptive  faculties  that  he 


HAROLD   FREDERIC  323 

was  not  such  a  great  man,  after  all,  as  I  had  imagined.  In 
another  instant  or  two  it  had  become  quite  clear  to  me  that 
I  had  no  admiration  for  him  whatever.  Without  a  word  I 
turned  on  my  heel  and  walked  determinedly  out  of  the  yard 
and  into  the  street,  homeward  bent. 

All  at  once  I  quickened  my  pace ;  something  had  oc- 
curred to  me.  The  purpose  thus  conceived  grew  so  swiftly 
that  soon  I  found  myself  running.  Up  the  hill  I  sped,  and 
straight  through  the  park.  If  the  Irish  boys  shouted  after 
me  I  knew  it  not,  but  dashed  on  heedless  of  all  else  save 
the  one  idea.  I  only  halted,  breathless  and  panting,  when 
I  stood  on  Dr.  Stratford's  doorstep,  and  heard  the  night- 
bell  inside  jangling  shrilly  in  response  to  my  excited  pull. 

As  I  waited,  I  pictured  to  myself  the  old  doctor  as  he 
would  presently  come  down,  half-dressed  and  pulling  on 
his  coat  as  he  advanced.  He  would  ask,  eagerly,  "Who 
is  sick?  Where  am  I  to  go?"  and  I  would  calmly  reply 
that  he  unduly  alarmed  himself,  and  that  I  had  a  message 
for  his  daughter.  He  would,  of  course,  ask  me  what  it 
was,  and  I,  politely  but  firmly,  would  decline  to  explain 
to  any  one  but  the  lady  in  person.  Just  what  might 
ensue  was  not  clear  —  but  I  beheld  myself  throughout 
commanding  the  situation,  at  once  benevolent,  polished, 
and  inexorable. 

The  door  opened  with  unlooked-for  promptness,  while 
my  self-complacent  vision  still  hung  in  midair.  Instead  of 
the  bald  and  spectacled  old  doctor,  there  confronted  me  a 
white-faced,  solemn-eyed  lady  in  a  black  dress,  whom  I  did 
not  seem  to  know.  I  stared  at  her,  tongue-tied,  till  she 
said,  in  a  low,  grave  voice,  "Well,  Andrew,  what  is  it?" 

Then  of  course  I  saw  that  it  was  Miss  Stratford,  my 
teacher,  the  person  whom  I  had  come  to  see.  Some  vague 
sense  of  what  the  sleepless  night  had  meant  in  this  house 
came  to  me  as  I  gazed  confusedly  at  her  mourning,  and 
heard  the  echo  of  her  sad  tones  in  my  ears. 

"Is  some  one  ill?"  she  asked  again. 

"  No ;  some  one  —  some  one  is  very  well !  "    I  managed 


324     AMERICAN    SHORT   STORIES 

to  reply,  lifting  my  eyes  again  to  her  wan  face.  The  spec- 
tacle of  its  drawn  lines  and  pallor  all  at  once  assailed  my 
wearied  and  overtaxed  nerves  with  crushing  weight.  I  felt 
myself  beginning  to  whimper,  and  rushing  tears  scalded  my 
eyes.  Something  inside  my  breast  seemed  to  be  dragging 
me  down  through  the  stoop. 

I  have  now  only  the  recollection  of  Miss  Stratford's 
kneeling  by  my  side,  with  a  supporting  arm  around  me, 
and  of  her  thus  unrolling  and  reading  the  proof-paper  I 
had  in  my  hand.  We  were  in  the  hall  now,  instead  of  on 
the  stoop,  and  there  was  a  long  silence.  Then  she  put  her 
head  on  my  shoulder  and  wept.  I  could  hear  and  feel  her 
sobs  as  if  they  were  my  own. 

"I  —  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  cry  —  that  you 'd  be  so 
sorry,"  I  heard  myself  saying,  at  last,  in  despondent  self- 
defence. 

Miss  Stratford  lifted  her  head  and,  still  kneeling  as  she 
was,  put  a  finger  under  my  chin  to  make  me  look  her  in 
her  face.  Lo  !  the  eyes  were  laughing  through  their  tears ; 
the  whole  countenance  was  radiant  once  more  with  the 
light  of  happy  youth  and  with  that  other  glory  which  youth 
knows  only  once. 

"  Why,  Andrew,  boy,"  she  said,  trembling,  smiling,  sob- 
bing, beaming  all  at  once,  "  did  n't  you  know  that  people 
cry  for  very  joy  sometimes?  " 

And  as  I  shook  my  head  she  bent  down  and  kissed  me. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

[Since  any  list  approaching  a  complete  bibliography  would  be  unduly  long, 
these  suggestions  are  merely  for  the  convenience  of  those  who,  without  special 
research,  wish  to  read  further  and  compare.  They  remain  after  rejection  of 
many  essays  that  seem  hardly  to  advance  the  discussion.] 

Cairns,  William  B.,  On  the  Development  of  American  Liter- 
ature from  1815  to  1833,  with  especial  reference  to  period- 
icals ;  Bulletin  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  Philology 
and  Literature  Series,  volume  i,  no.  i,  pages  1-87. 

Canby,  Henry  Seidel,  The  Short  Story;  Yale  Studies  in  Eng- 
lish, xii  (revised  as  introduction  to  The  Book  of  the  Short 
Story,  edited  by  Alexander  Jessup  and  Henry  Seidel 
Canby). 

Chassang,  A.,  Histoire  du  Roman  . . .  dans  V  Antiquite"  Grecque 
et  Latine;  Paris  (2d  ed.),  1862. 

Gilbert,  E.,  Le  Roman  en  France  pendant  le  xixe  Siecle;  Paris 
(2d  ed.),  1896. 

Hart,  Walter  Morris,  The  Evolution  of  the  Short  Story ;  ad- 
dress delivered  before  the  Alumni  Association  of  Haver- 
ford  College,  June  12,  1901. 

Matthews,  Brander,  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short  Story  ;  New 
York,  1901.  (This,  the  standard  essay  on  the  subject,  is 
now  published  separately,  with  notes  and  a  few  striking 
references.) 

Moland  et    d'H6ricault,   Nouvelles   Francoises  en   Prose  du 
xiiime  Siecle /  Paris,  1856  (1'Empereur  Constant,  Amis  et 
Amile,  le  Roi  Flore  et  la  Belle  Jehane,  la  Comtesse  de 
Ponthieu,  Aucassin  et  Nicolette;  introduction,  notes). 
325 


326       BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 

Morris,  William,  Old  French  Romances  done  into  English  by 
William  Morris,  with  introduction  by  Joseph  Jacobs  ; 
London,  1896  (translation  of  the  same  tales  as  in  the  pre- 
ceding, except  Aucassin  and  Nicolette). 

Peck,  Harry  Thurston,  Trimalchid 's  Dinner  by  Petronius  Ar- 
biter, translated  from  the  original  Latin,  with  an  introduc- 
tion and  bibliographical  appendix ;  New  York,  1898.  (The 
introduction  discusses  prose  fiction  in  Greece  and  Rome.) 

Perry,  Bliss,  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction;  Boston,  1902. 


INDEX 

[Titles  of  books  and  periodicals  are  in  quotation  marks ;  titles  of 
separate  stories,  in  italics} 


A  DDISON,  a  model  for  Irving,  6 
**  Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  34 
Alice  Doane's  Appeal  (Hawthorne), 

13 

Allegory,  10,  14,  23,  230 
Ambitious  Guest,   The  (Hawthorne), 

14 
American    literature,    brevity  of,    i ; 

wherein    American,    1-4,     8,     35 ; 

American  life  in,  3-6,  n,  12 
"  American  Monthly  Magazine,  The," 

"3 

Amis  and  Amile,  25 
Anecdote,  10,  24,  26,  27,  29 
Annuals,  American,  2,  4,  5,  9-12,  18 
Antonius  Diogenes,  24 
"  Appleton's  Journal,"  245 
Apuleius,  30 
Aristides  of  Miletus,  24 
Aristotle,  "  Poetics,"  13,  19,  20 
Arsene  Guillot  (Me'rime'e),  31 
Artificiality  in  short  story,  20,  32 
"Ass,  The,"  of  Lucian,  24 
"  Atlantic  Monthly,  The,"  247 
"Atlantic  Souvenir,  The,"  2,  4,  5,  n 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  25,  27,  31 
Austin,   William,   i,   10,    12,    59-95 ; 

biographical  and  critical  sketch,  59  ; 

Joseph  Natter strom,  i,  10;  Peter 

Rugg,  10,  12,  60-95 

BACON,  Delia,  u 
Balzac,  HonorS  de,  32-33;  El 
verdugo,  Les  proscrits,  La  messe 
de  fathee,  Z.  Marcas,  32;  form  in, 

32-33 
Bandello,  29 


Beckwith,  Hiram  W.,  97 
Bee-Tree,  The  (Kirkland),  195-210 
Beers,  Henry  A.,  2,  177 
Ben  Hadar  (Paulding),  10 
Berenice  (Poe),  2,  3,  16,  18,  21,  22, 

33 

Blackwell,  Robert,  97 
Boccaccio,  "  The  Decameron,"  26-28, 

3° 

"  Boston  Book,  The,"  61 

Brunetiere,  Ferdinand,  26 

Buckthorns  and  His  Friends  (Irv- 
ing), 8 

Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler,  289-301; 
biographical  and  critical  note,  289 ; 
The  Third  Figure  of  the  Cotillion, 
289;  The  Love  Letters  of  Smith, 
291-301 

Burton's  "Gentleman's  Magazine," 
154 

pABLE,  George  W.,  5,  34;  Posson 

^    /"««,  34 

Cairns,  William  B.,  2,  6,  325 

Canby,  Henry  Seidel,  325 

Carmen  (Meiim6e),  31 

Catholic,  The,  4 

"Cena  Trimalchionis,"  of  Petronius, 

24 
"  Cent  nouvelles  nouvelles,  Les,"  28, 

30 

Character,  development  of,  13,  26,  27 
Chassang,  A.,  325 
Chaucer,  25,  28 ;   The  Man  of  Law, 

The  Pardoner,   Troilus  and  Cri- 

seyde,  25 
Chivalric  Sailor,  The  (Sedgwick),  1 1 


-      327 


INDEX 


Clemens,  Samuel  L.  (Mark  Twain), 

4,  34;   The  Jumping  Prog,  34 
Climax  (see  Culmination) 
Colombo  (M£rimee),  31 
Combe  h  thomme  mart,  La  (Nodier), 

29,30 
Compression  of  time,  in  short  story, 

8,   ii,   12,  13,  19,  20,  27,  28,  33 

(see  Unity) 

"Condensed  Novels  "  (Harte),  229 
Consistency  of  form,  9,  23,  26-28,  31, 

32,  33  (see  Unity) 
Conte  and  nouvelle,  30,  31,  33 
"  Contes  de  la    Reine  de   Navarre " 

(see  "  Heptameron  ") 
Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  i,  5 
Cornelius  Sisenna,  24 
Culmination,  in  short  story,  7,  8,  10, 

20-22,  26-28,  31,  32,  33 

T\  AM  NAT  I  ON  of  Theron  Ware, 
-*•*'     The  (Frederic),  303 
Dana,  Richard  Henry,  Paul  Pelton,  n 
Daphne,  The  (Webster),  245 
Daphnis  and  Chloe,  24-25 
"  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil " 

(Willis),  178 

Daudet,  Alphonse,  30,  34 
David  Swan  (Hawthorne),  14 
"  Decameron,  The,"  26-28 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  30 
Descriptive  sketches,  9, 12,  14,  31,  99, 

"3,  '93 

Dialogue  and  monologue,  19,  27 
Diamond  Lens,  The  (O'Brien),  211 
Dickens,    Charles,    influence    of,  on 

Bret  Harte,  230;  on  O'Brien,  211 
Dio  Chrysostom,  25 
Directness  of  movement,  18,  19,  20, 

26,27 

Documentary  interest,  in  fiction,  3,  30 
Dominant,  use  of  a  single  detail  as, 

16,  21,  22 
Drama,   influence  of,   on  novel   and 

short  story,  26,  34 
Dumas,  Alexandre,  influence  of,   on 

Bret  Harte,  230 
TfDGE WORTH,  Maria,  26 

Emigrant's  Daughter,  The,  5 
End  of  the  Passage,  The  (Kipling), 


Enlevement  de  la  redout e,  Le  (Meri- 

mee),  31 

Esmeralda,  The  (Wallace),  n 
Essay  tendency  in  tales,  6,  7,  10,  14, 

IS,  18,  32 

Ethan  Brand  (Hawthorne),  13 
Eve  of  the  Fourth,   The  (Frederic), 

305-324 
Exposition  in  tales  (see  Essay  tendency) 

PALL  of  the  House  of  Usher,  The 

(Poe),  18,  154-176 
Fancy's  Show  Box  (Hawthorne),  14 
Filleule  du  Seigneur,  La  (Nodier),  30 
Flaubert,  Gustave,  30 
Flint,  Timothy,  5 
Florus,  King,  and  tJie  Pair  Jekane, 

25 

Fool's  Moustache,  A  (Webster),  245 

"Forest  Life"  (Kirkland),  193 

France,  Anatole,  29 

Frederic,  Harold,  303-324 ;  biograph- 
ical and  critical  note,  303 ;  "  In  the 
Sixties,"  303 ;  The  Eve  of  the 
Fourth,  305-324 ;  The  Damnation 
of  Theron  Ware,  303 

Fromentin,  Eugene,  3 

Frontier,  tales  of  the,  5, 10,  12,  97-127, 
193-210,  229-243 

QAUTIER,  ThSophile,  30,  33;  Le 
^•^     nid    de    rossignols,    La    mart 
amoureuse,  33  ;  preferred  nouvelle 
to  conte,   diffuseness,   influence  of 
Sterne,  tendency  to  mere  descrip- 
tion, likeness  to  Poe,  33 
Genlis,  Mme.  de,  moral  tales  of,  10 
"Gentleman's    Magazine  and  Amer- 
ican  Monthly   Review,"  Burton's, 
154 

German  Student,  The  (Irving),  8 
Gift-books  (see  Annuals) 
Gilbert,  E.,  29,  325 
Gilman,  Mrs.,  5 
"Golden  Era,  The,"  229 
Goldsmith,  influence  on  Irving,  6 
Gradation,  20-23,  32  (see  Sequence) 
Great    Good    Place,     The    (James), 

34 
Great  Stone  Face,  The  (Hawthorne), 


INDEX 


329 


•LJALE,  Mrs.,  5                                j 
Hall,  James,  5,  9,  11,  12,  97-112; 

Old  Maid,  13,  131-142  ;  The  Seven 
Vagabonds,  230 

biographical  and  critical  note,   97; 

"  Heptameron,  The,"  of  the  Queen 

"  The  Illinois  Intelligencer,"  "  The 

of  Navarre,  29 

Illinois  Magazine,"  "  The  Western 

Hermit  of  the  Prairies,  The,  5 

Monthly  Magazine,"  "  Letters  from 

"  Hermite    de    la  Chauss6e  d'Antin, 

the    West,"     "Sketches     of   the 

Le,"  6 

West,"    "Notes  on  the   Western 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth,  59 

States,"  "The  Wilderness  and  the 

Historical  tales,  4,  5,  9,  10,  n 

War  Path,"   97;    "The    Western 

Hoax-story,  10,  34 

Souvenir,"    5,    97  ;    The    Indian 

Horla,  Le  (Maupassant),  212 

Hater,  Pete  Featherton,    5;     The 

Village  Musician,  9;   The  French 
Village,  5,  9,  12,  99-112 

TLIAD  of  Sandy  Bar,  The  (Harte), 

Harmonisation,  16,  23 
"  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine,"  212, 

23O 

"Illinois  Intelligencer,  The,"  97 
"Illinois  Magazine,  The,"  97 

213 
Hart,  Walter  Morris,  325 

"  In  the  Sixties  "  (Frederic),  305 
Indian  Hater,  The  (Hall),  5 

Harte,    Francis    Bret,     4,    229-243  ; 
biographical  and  critical  note,  229; 

Inlet  of  Peach  Blossoms,  Tke(  Willis), 

179—  I  QI 

"Condensed    Novels,"    229;     The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  229,  230  ; 

Inroad  of  the  Nabajo,   The  (Pike) 
115—127 

Johnson's      Old      Woman,      Mrs. 
Skaggs's  Husbands,   The  Iliad  of 

Intensity,  in  short  story,  12,  22,  32, 
34 

Sandy  Bar,    Tennessee's  Partner, 
230  ;   The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Plat, 

Introductions  to  tales,  7,  10,   17,  18, 
19,  31,  99,  195 

231-243;  influence  of  Dickens,  230; 
of  Dumas,  230  ;  tendency  to  melo- 
drama, 230  ;  local  truth,  229  ;  sym- 

Irving, Washington,  i,  4,  5,  6-9,  18, 
29»  37-5s»  H3>  289;    looseness  of 
form,    7,     8;    characterisation,    7; 

bolism,  230 

unity  of  tone,  7  ;  influence  of,  8,  9, 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  2,  5,  9,  10,  12- 

143,  289;  introductions,  18;  "The 

15,  16,  18,  23,  30,  31,  32,  59,  129- 

Sketch   Book,"    7;    "Tales    of    a 

142,  230;    bent   not  toward  short 

Traveller,"    8,    143;     The    Wife, 

story,  12-15,  3'»  allegory,  symbol- 

The   Widow  and  Her  Son,    The 

ism,  14,  23,   230;  vocabulary,  16; 
tendency  toward    description,    14  ; 

Pride  of  the  Village,   The  Spectre 
Bridegroom,    7  ;    Buckthorne    and 

toward  essay,  14,   15,  18,    30;  ex- 

His  Friends,    The    German    Stu- 

pository introductions,    18  ;    unity 
compared  with  Poe's,  23;  likeness 
to  Nodier,  30;  "  Twice-Told  Tales," 

dent,  8  ;  Philip  of  Pokanoket,  9  ; 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  7,  8,  37-58 

131;    The   Gentle  Boy,    12;    The 

Wives  of  the  Dead,  12,  13  ;  Roger 

JACOBS,  Joseph,  25 

Malvin's    Burial,   Alice    Doane's 

James,  Henry,  34 

Appeal,  Ethan  Brand,    13;    The 

Jean  Prancois-les-bas-bleus  (Nodier), 

Scarlet  Letter,  13,  14;  Sunday  at 

3° 

Home,     Sights   from     a    Steeple, 

Johnson's     Old     Woman     (Harte), 

Main  Street,    The  Village  Uncle, 

230 

The   Ambitious     Guest,    Fancy's 

Joseph  Natterstrom  (Austin),  I,  10 

Show  Box,  David  Swan,  The  Snow 

Jouy,  M.  de,  6 

Image,  The  Great  Stone  Pace,  14 

Jumping  Prog,  The  (Mark  Twain), 

Tht  Marble  Faunas;  The  White  \     34 


330 


INDEX 


T£  EEPSAKES  (see  Annuals) 

•*^-  Kennedy,  John  Pendleton,  5, 
9;  "Swallow  Barn,"  9 

Kinetic  narrative,  and  static,  22 

King  Pest  (Poe),  18,22 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  34,  212  ;  The  End 
of  the  Passage,  212 

Kirkland,  Mrs.,  5,  6,  193-210;  bio- 
graphical and  critical  note,  1 93 ; 
"  A  New  Home—  Who'll  Follow," 
"Forest  Life,"  "Western  Clear- 
ings, "193;  The  Bee-  Tree,  195-210 

Kirkland,  William,  193 

T  ANDOR,  Walter  Savage,  30 

•^-/   "  Letters  from  Arkansas  "  (Pike), 

"  Letters  from  the  West "  (Hall),  97 

Lidivine  (Nodier),  30 

Ligeia  (Poe),  16,  18 

"Literati"  (Poe),  193 

Local  color,  3-6, 9,  n,  12,  34, 97, 113, 
193,  229,  303 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth,  143- 
151 ;  biographical  and  critical  note, 
143?  "  Outre-Mer,"  143;  The  No- 
tary of  Perigueux,  145-151 

Longus,  24,  25 

Love  Letters  of  Smith,  The  (Bunner), 
291-301 

Lucian,  24 

Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  The  (Harte), 
229,  230 

TV/f  AGAZINES,  American,  2-5,  9, 
•*•         34  (and  see  separate  titles) 
Main  Street  (Hawthorne),  14 
Afaison    TeUier,  La  (Maupassant), 

230 

Man  of  Law,  The  (Chaucer),  25 
Marble    Faun,    The    (Hawthorne), 

15 

Margaret  of  Angouleme,  Queen  of 
Navarre,  the  "  Heptameron  "  of,  29 

Marjorie  Daw  (Aldrich),  34 

Mary  Dyre  (Sedgwick),  n 

Matron  of  Ephesus,  The  (Petronius), 
24 

Matthews,  Brander,  8,  n,  22,  31,  212, 
325;  edition  of  Irving's  "Tales  of 
a  Traveller,"  8;  "The  Philosophy 


of  the  Short-Story,"  n,  22,  31,  212, 

325 
Maupassant,  Guy  de,  30,  34, 212,  230; 

La  maison  TeUier,  230  ;  Le  Horla, 

212 

Mediaeval  tales,  23-29,  31 
Melodrama,  tendency  toward,  in  earlier 

American  tales,  4,  5,  u ;  in  O'Brien, 

2ii ;  in  Bret  Harte,  230 
Merim6e,    Prosper,   30-34 ;    narrative 

conciseness,  31 ;  preferred  nouvelle 

to    conte,    31,    34;    and    Poe,   32; 

Carmen,  Colomba,  Arsene  Guillot, 

L'enlevement  de  la  redoute,    Ta- 

mango,  La  vision  de  Charles  XI, 

Le  vase  etrusque,   31;   La   Venus 

d'llle,  31,  32 

Messe  de  I'athee,  La  (Balzac),  32 
Methodist's  Story,  The,  4 
Metzenger stein  (Poe),  16,  18,  22 
Milesian  tales,  24 

"  Mirror,  The  New  York,"  177,  178 
Miss  Eunice's  Glove  (Webster),  247- 

266 

Mitchell,  Donald  G.,  i 
Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  193 
Moland  and  d'Hericault,  325 
Monologue,  Poe's,  19 
Moral  tales,  4,  9,  to,  14,  30;  allegory 

in,  10,  14;  of  Mme.  de  Genlis,  10; 

of  Nodier,  10,  30 ;  oriental  setting 

for,  10 

Morella  (Poe),  16,  17,  18,  21,  22 
Morris,  William,  25,  326 
Morte  Amoureuse,  La  (Gautier),  33 
Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands  (Harte),  230 
Musset,  Alfred  de,  33 
My  Wife's  Tempter  (O'Brien),  211 

-\TARANTSAUK,  4 
•iV      Nationality  in  literature,  3-6, 

II,  12 

"  New  England  Galaxy,  The,"  61 
"  New  England  Magazine,  The,"  2, 131 
"New  Home,  A, —  Who'll  Follow" 

(Kirkland),  193 

"New  York  Mirror,  The,"  177,  178 
Nid  de  rossignols,  Le  (Gautier)  33 
Nodier,  Charles,  10,  29,  30,  31 ;  pre- 
ferred nouvelle    to   conte,   30,   31; 
similarity  to  Hawthorne,   30;   Les 


INDEX 


quatre  talismans,  10 ;  La  combe  a 
Chomme  mart,  29,  30 ;  Smarra, 
Jean  Franc^ois-les-bas-bleus,  Lidi- 
vine,  Lafilleule  du  Seigneur,  30 

"Notes  on  the  Western  States" 
(Hall),  97 

Nouvelle,  and  conte,  30,  31,  33 ;  and 
roman,  31 

Novel  and  short  story,  8,  12,  13,  15, 
21,  25,  26 

Novelette,  31 

Novella,  27,  30 

Q'BRIEN,  Fitz- James,  211-228; 
biographical  and  critical  note, 
211  ;  The  Diamond  Lens,  The 
Wondersmith,  Tommatoo,  My 
Wife's  Tempter,  211  ;  What  Was 
It?,  213-228 

Operation  in  Money,  An  (Webster), 

245 

Oriental  tales,  10,  25 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Plat,  The  (Harte), 

23J-243 

"Outre-Mer"  (Longfellow),  143 
"Overland  Monthly,  The,"  229,  231 
Owner  of  "Lara,11   The  (Webster), 

245 

pARDONER,  The  (Chaucer),  25 
Pastoral  romance,  25 

Paul  Pelton  (Dana),  u 

Paulding,  James  K.,  Ben  Hadar,  10 

Peck,  Harry  Thurston,  326 

"  Pencillings  by  the  Way  "  (Willis), 
177 

Periodicals  (see  Annuals,  Magazines) 

Perry,  Bliss,  326 

Pete  Peatherton  (Hall),  5 

Peter  Rugg,  the  Missing  Man 
(Austin),  10,  12,  60-95 

Petronius,  "  Cena  Trimalchionis," 
"Satyricon,"  24 

Philip  of  Pokanoket  (Irving),  9 

Picaresque  story,  24 

Pike,  Albert,  12,  113-127;  biograph- 
ical and  critical  note,  113;  "Prose 
Sketches  and  Poems,"  12,  115; 
"Letters  from  Arkansas,"  113; 
"Hymns  to  the  Gods,"  113;  The 
Inroad  of  the  Nabajo,  115-127 


Plot  (see  Compression,  Culmination 
Novel,  Short  story,  Time-lapse, 
Unity) 

Plots,  simple  or  complex,  12,  13 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  3,  4, 9, 12, 15-23,  32, 
33.  I53-I76,  193)  2I1!  genius  for 
form,  9,  16;  preoccupation  with 
structure,  16 ;  review  of  Hawthorne, 
14,  22;  characters,  16;  detective 
stories,  16,  20 ;  harmonisation,  16, 
23;  refrain,  16,  17,  21;  vocabulary, 
16,  17;  cadence,  16;  suppression  of 
introductions,  18, 19 ;  simplification 
for  directness,  19  ;  setting,  19;  habit 
of  monologue,  19;  gradation,  20-23; 
artificiality,  20,  32 ;  grotesque,  22 ; 
kinetic  narrative,  and  static,  22; 
conception  of  unity,  22,  23 ;  appli- 
cation of  Schlegel,  22;  review  of 
Mrs.  Sigourney,  22  ;  symbolism,  23 ; 
and  Hawthorne,  18,  20,  23;  and 
M^rime'e,  32  ;  and  Gautier,  33 ;  and 
O'Brien,  211;  "Literati,"  193; 
Berenice,  2,  3,  16,  18,  21,  22,  33; 
Metzengerstein,  16, 18,  22 ;  Morella, 
16,  17,  18,  21,  22;  Ligeia,  16,  18; 
King  Pest,  18,  22  ;  The  Tell-Tale 
Heart,  18;  The  Pall  of  the  House 
of  Usher,  18,  154-176 

"  Poetics,"  of  Aristotle,  13,  19,  20 

"  Portfolio,  The,"  97 

Posson  Jone  (Cable),  34 

Poushkin,  34 

Premonition,  21,  31 

Pride  of  the  Village,  The  (Irving),  7 

Proscrits,  Les  (Balzac),  32 

"  Prose  Sketches  and  Poems  "  (Pike), 
12,  114 

"Puck,"  289 

(&UATRE  talismans,   Les   (No- 
°\j  dier),  10 

REMINISCENCE  of  Federalism, 
**    A  (Sedgwick),  n 
Richepin,  34 

Rip  Van  Winkle  (Irving),  7,  8,  37-58 
Roger  Malvin's  Burial  (Hawthorne), 

Romances,  short,  4,  10,  II,  25,  27; 
American,  4,  u;  summary  or  seen- 


33* 


INDEX 


ario,  ro,  25  ;  pastoral,  25  ;  mediae- 
val, 25-28,  29 
Romanticism,  4,  7,  8,  1 1 

"  O  ATYRICON  "  (Petronius),  24 
^     S«rar/,?*  £,ftt*r,  The  (Haw- 
thorne), 13,  14 

Scenario,  or  summary  romance,  10,  13, 
24,  26,  27 

Schlcgel,  Poe's  application  of,  22 

Scott,   Sir   Walter,   influence  of,    n, 

37 

Sedgwick,  Charlotte  M.,  A  Reminis- 
cence of  Federalism,  Mary  Dyre, 
The  Chivalric  Sailor,  n 

Sequence  of  incidents,  7,  8,  9,  10,  16, 
20-23  (see  Gradation) 

Setting,  1 6  (see  Local  color) 

Seven  Vagabonds,  The  (Hawthorne), 
230 

"  Short  Sixes  "  (Bunner),  291 

Short  story,  in  antiquity,  24,  25  ;  in 
middle  age,  25-29;  in  France,  29-35  > 
in  America,  1-23,  34,  35 ;  in  Eng- 
land, 33,  34  ;  in  other  countries,  34 ; 
popularity  of,  3,  34;  distinct  from 
tale  and  novel,  2,  6,  7,  8,  n,  12,  13, 
21,  23-27,  29-31  ;  unity  of,  7,  8, 
11-13,  J5-23 !  intensity  of,  12, 13, 32 
(see  Unity) 

"  Short-Story,  The  Philosophy  of  the  " 
(Matthews),  u,  12,  31,  212,  325 

Sights  from  a  Steeple  (Hawthorne), 
H 

Simple  plots  and  complex,  13-15,  25, 
26 

Simplification  of  narrative  mechanism, 
7,  8,  ri,  12,  13,  17-20,  23  (see 
Unity) 

Singleness,  13,  15,  19,  31  (see  Unity) 

Situation,  a  single,  in  short  story,  12, 
26,  27,  28,  31 

"  Sketch  Book,  The  "  (Irving),  7,  8, 
37 

"Sketches  of  the  West"  (Hall),  97 

Smarra  (Nodier),  30 

Snow  Image,  The  (Hawthorne),  14 

"  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  The," 
2»33 

"Spectator,  The,"  6,  7,9;  influence 
on  Irving,  6,  7;  on  the  British 


novel,   6;   in  France  ;  6,  on  J.  P. 

Kennedy,  9 ;  in  Virginia,  9 
Spectre  Bridegroom,  The  (Irving),  7 
Static  narrative,  and  kinetic,  22 
Sterne,  Lawrence,  influence  on  Gautier, 

33 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  34 
Stockton,  Frank   R.,    The  Wreck  of 

the  Thomas  Hyke,  34 
Sunday  at  Home  (Hawthorne),  14 
Suspense,  10,  16,  20 
"  Swallow  Barn  "  (Kennedy),  9 
Symbolism,  10,  14,  23,  230 

HpALE,  a  constant  literary  form, 
25,  26;  distinct  from  short  story 
(which  see);  anecdote,  10,  24,  26, 
29;  summary  or  fragmentary,  13, 
I5»  23.  24,  27 !  moral,  4,  9,  10,  14, 
30  ;  historical,  4,  5,  9,  10,  n  ;  yarn, 
10,  34;  oriental,  10,  25 

Tales,  ancient,  23-25 ;  Milesian,  24 ; 
mediaeval,  25-29,  31 ;  modern 
French,  30;  American,  before  1835, 

I-I2 

"Tales  of  a  Traveller"  (Irving),  8, 

r43 

Tamango  (Me'rime'e),  31 

Taylor,  Bayard,  267-287;  biographi- 
cal and  critical  note,  267 ;  Who  Was 
She?  269-287 

Tell-Tale  Heart,  The  (Poe),  18 

Tennessee's  Partner  (Harte),  230 

Theocritus,  the  fifteenth  idyl  of,  25 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  i 

Time-lapse,  management  of,  8,  n,  12, 
13,  19-21,  27-29,  31,  32 

"  Token,  The,"  2,  5 

Tommatoo  (O'Brien),  211 

Totality  of  interest,  Poe's  principle  of, 
22 

Troilus  and  Criseyde  (Chaucer),  25 

TTNITIES,  the  classical,  19,  20,  34, 
U    289 

Unity,  in  short  story,  of  purpose,  8, 
16-23;  of  tone,  7,  16-19,  22,  23  ;  of 
form,  7,  8,  10,  12,  13,  16-19,  22,  23, 

25-29,  31-33,  59,  "3,  H3,  '77,  193, 
211,  230,  289;  of  time,  8,  n,  12, 
13,  19-21,  27-29,  31,  32;  of  place, 


INDEX 


333 


iz,  13,  ig,  27,  29,  32!  by  suppres- 
sion, 19,  32;  and  artificiality,  20,  32 

J7ASE  etrusque,  Le  (M6rimee),  31 
V       Venus  d'llle,  La  (Merime"e),  31 
Verdugo,  El  (Balzac),  32 
Village    Uncle,     The    (Hawthorne), 

Vision  de  Charles  XI,  La  (M£rim6e), 

31 
Voltaire,  10 

TyALLACE,  Godfrey,  The  Es- 
meralda,  n 

Webster,  Albert  Falvey,  245-266; 
biographical  and  critical  note,  245  ; 
An  Operation  in  Money,  The 
Daphne,  A  Poofs  Moustache,  The 
Owner  of  Lara,  245  ;  Miss  Eu- 
nice's Glove,  247-266 

"  Weekly  Californian,  The,"  (Harte), 
229 

"  Western  Clearings  "  (Kirkland),  193 ; 

195 
"  Western  Monthly  Magazine,  The" 

(Hall),  97 
"  Western  Monthly  Review,  The,"  5 


"  Western  Souvenir,  The  "  (Hall),  5, 
97.99 

What  Was  It?  (O'Brien),  213-228 

White  Old  Maid,  The  (Hawthorne), 
13, 131-142 

Whitman,  Walt,  3 

Who  Was  She?  (Taylor),  260-287 

Widow  and  Her  Son,  The  (Irving),  7 

Wife,  The  (Irving),  7 

"  Wilderness  and  the  War  Path,  The  " 
(Hall),  97 

Wilkins,  Mary  E.,  1 1 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker,  177-191, 
193;  biographical  and  critical  note, 
177;  "Pencillings  by  the  Way," 
"  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pen- 
cil," 177;  The  Inlet  of  Peach  Blos- 
soms, 179-191 

Wives  of  the  Dead,  The  (Hawthorne), 
i2>  '3 

Wondersmith,  The  (O'Brien),  211 

Wreck  of  the  Thomas  Hyke,  T/ie 
(Stockton),  34 

yARN,  10,  34 
*7.  MARCAS  (Balzac),  32 


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